


Follow the Heartlines

by fakexpearls



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Battle, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Happy Ending, Illustrated, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Kings Rising, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 02:12:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16801645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakexpearls/pseuds/fakexpearls
Summary: ”Apologies, Exalted. What I meant – ”“What you meant is that you don’t know why I can’t remember anything since His Majesty flayed my back and had me dressed in gold paint and slave’s garb to serve him. But he was a prince then. And a king now.”Laurent tried to hide his flinch at the words, at his own memories. He looked away to the marble floor.Damianos continued: “You say that was four years ago. In that time, I seem to have aligned myself with him in country and in marriage. And no one tried to stop me.”An Amnesia AU (with political intrigue)





	1. One

The sun and palace gates of Marlas rose in near tandem. At the front of a small caravan, Laurent felt warm. Settled. 

The visit to Fortaine had lasted three days. Long enough to kiss a baby’s head or two, and admire the fort’s upkeep. Still, it felt like Laurent had been too long away. Marlas was home. Even with the smaller grounds, delays in construction, and a lack of the more-detailed architecture he was used to, Laurent never wanted to be elsewhere.

Unless Damen was away for too long as well.

The decision to ride through the night had been foolhardy and reckless, but not one he regretted. 

Once inside the palace walls, he paid his guard a nod of approval before they could scatter to the stables and barracks. He swung off his horse, tossing the reins to the nearest stable boy stumbling in rubbing the sleep out of their eyes.

“The weather held out,” Jord said from beside him, swinging off his own horse with a low grunt and went to remove his horse’s bridle. 

“Aye. A bit of a surprise, that,” added another of his Guard.

By the farmer’s calendar, the first dusting of snow was expected before the end of the month. It would melt away that same day, but the people of Delfeur looked for the storm to mark the end of autumn every year. 

“Make sure Pallas is up before you retire,” Laurent told Jord as his steward ushered him towards the palace. “Have his men on duty until dinner. You have the day to rest.”

As Laurent made his way through the quiet palace halls, he could feel the nights ride catching up with him. The prospect of a few hours of sleep became more enticing with each step. He needed to bathe -- stripped of his armor, he could feel all the dirt clinging to his skin, his riding trousers clinging to him with sweat -- and had been informed the water had been prepared. Still, he let himself indulged in the doorway of Damen’s bedchambers.

The bedsheets rested just at his husband’s navel, and the sun peeking through the curtains highlighted his bronzed skin unfairly. As quietly as he had entered, Laurent went to Damen’s side of the bed. He traced the strong brow and then trailed a finger down his cheekbone and bristly jaw. It seemed that the closer Damen’s thirtieth birthday became, the more he forgot the razor in the mornings.

He had been gone but a few days, and still Laurent caught himself in sentiment. He knew Damen wouldn’t sleep much longer; they were both early risers from youth and mistrust, but maybe Laurent would give him reason to linger. Maybe they could doze until something urgent required their attention, or have breakfast on the balcony when it was too late to be considered the morning meal. 

Laurent leaned in to steal a kiss, smiling to himself as Damen began to wake and a half-formed groan vibrate against his lips. 

He whispered a greeting, taking a hand through bed-messed curls. “Go back to sleep,” he said.

Beneath him, Laurent felt Damen come awake all at once. A hand shot out and caught his wrist.

“It’s just me,” he reassured, voice remaining low, but the grip tightened and the cuff adorning it cut into skin. Laurent pulled back. Meeting Damen’s eyes, he found them full panic and unfamiliarity. “Damen.”

The name caused Damen to let out a sharp breath and Laurent frowned.

“Where am I?” said Damen, his eyes leaving Laurent’s for a quick study of the room. “Why am I here?”

“Where else would you be?” Laurent tried to tease, but his brow furrowed deeper. He could not free his wrist from Damen’s grip. With another tug, he said, “Let go.”

Damen dropped Laurent’s wrist as if the words had burned him. 

“Forgive me, but I do not… Did you send for me?”

“Send for -- ” Laurent repeated, his confusion starting to take its place with the tension coming off Damen. “I rode through the night to get back to you,” he said.

The way Damen was looking at him with barely concealed fear was reminiscent of years ago, but the long night was clouding Laurent’s mind too much for him to find reason in that. Maybe Damen had been having a bad dream. That was all. 

“What’s the matter?” Laurent tried, switching to Akielon.

Damen gave a minute shake of his head. “I apologize, Your Highness, but I do not remember being brought to you…” He turned to look over his shoulder. His words had been Veretian. 

Laurent felt his gut clench. 

“Damianos.”

Again, Damen looked at him with panic. His eyes were wide like they had been at Fortaine, and later at the Kingsmeet when realization had come. “You know who I am?” 

A well-rested man would have been able to reason with Damen further, but Laurent did not want to hear anything else. He pushed off the bed and put distance between himself and a reality he was beginning to understand but didn’t want to face. 

Damen followed him, taking the bedsheets with him across the room. “Your Highness -- Laurent. How long have you known?” he demanded. As demure as he had been the minute before, this was the opposite. This was Damen as Laurent knew him – inside and out, for better or worse. Strong. Powerful in body and mind. Demanding and expectant of the truth from the beginning. 

“Have you known this entire time?” asked Damen.

“Stop this.” Laurent stepped away from the hand reaching for him. This was not possible. Maybe he was the one asleep, and this was just a nightmare. To ride through the night would be illogical. He would never do that.

“No. How long have you known?”

“That’s enough.” 

“Your High – ”

“I said that is  _ enough _ , Damianos.”

But Damen had stopped on his own accord. Frozen in the light of a window, his eyes were trained on whatever was in the garden below. 

Laurent swallowed. He tried to find his fraying composure. To convince himself that this was a nightmare. He would wake up in an inn’s unfamiliar room and -- 

“Are we not in Arles?”

That was when Laurent yelled for the guards to find Paschal.

+

“Time can heal this, Your Majesty. Exalted.” Paschal said it like a promise, turning to each of them. “I have completed my examinations, and there is nothing physically wrong with King Damianos.”

A low grunt came from the man in question as he paced the room like a caged animal. 

“The concern is that the King does not remember why he is in Marlas, Paschal. Not that he may have a bruise or two,” said Laurent. Although, he would take what relief he was given. 

The council meeting schedule for the following day had been postponed. The banquet next week, rescheduled. The representatives from Vask would still be welcomed, but that was not an immediate visit and they had yet to fully commit. Damianos-Exalted would be indisposed until...until….

“He was himself last night?” It had to be clarified – just once more. He looked from Nikandros on the settee, then back to Paschal. His hands were clasped behind his back lest they start to shake again. “He did not ask for willows bark? Peppermint?”

It was the same circle of conversation they had been having for the last hour. Nikandros would assure Laurent that for the entirety of the day he had spent with Damen, the man had been fine. The poison-testers had not found anything in Exalted’s food, nor had they fallen ill between then and now. Damen had not requested anything, not even a bandage or some salve, from Paschal or his apprentice in months. 

“Your Majesty….” Paschal began, shaking his head. “If there has been an injury, it is not one I can find. The mind… we must give it time. It is a funny thing.”

“I find no humor in this.” 

The words were low, gruff, and pulled Laurent’s gaze to Damianos. The dark circles under his brown eyes spoke of an exhaustion Laurent felt in his bones.

“Apologies, Exalted. What I meant – ”

“What you meant is that you don’t know why I can’t remember anything since His Majesty flayed my back and had me dressed in gold paint and slave’s garb to serve him. But he was a prince then. And a king now.”

Laurent tried to hide his flinch at the words, at his own memories. He looked away to the marble floor. 

Damianos continued: “You say that was four years ago. In that time, I seem to have aligned myself with him in country and in marriage. And no one tried to stop me.” 

Nikandros murmured something at that. Laurent did not care enough to know exactly what his words were. 

“Despite even my best efforts, your fumbling attentions won me over,” he said instead, words petty and scornful. “Even I tried to warn you.” 

When Damianos had no worthy response, Laurent turned to Paschal. “If there is nothing else to be done tonight,” and he knew there wasn’t, “you may go.”

“Your Majesty,” The physician acknowledged the command with a nod, but hesitated. “There are certain tonics I can make. At the very least, they may help with the pain.”

Damianos stopped pacing for a moment and shook his head. “It’s a headache. Nothing more.”

And yet they hadn’t been mentioned at all.

“Brew them,” Laurent ordered.

Silence followed.

Damianos turned to the window that had caught his attention that morning, and Laurent chose to wait. He studied the lacing of his boots, then the carving of the table legs. 

It had been much easier for him to ignore the worry building inside of him alone in the council chamber, too busy formulating plans and sending messages. With a single goal in mind, there had been no time for the dread that now tried to overwhelm Laurent.

With a breath, he tried to push it down inside of him, just once more.

“This… is absurd,” said Damianos, quietly. His arms were braced against the windowsill as he looked over gardens he didn’t know. 

“You’ve done worse, truthfully, ” said Nikandros. He reached for the carafe of wine before him on the table and poured a generous glass.

There was a low grunt of disagreement from Damianos, but Laurent could appreciate the humor. He could only imagine all the situations Nikandros deemed ‘worse,’ and just how many involved him. 

The two of them shared a look, and Laurent offered him the echo of a smile. Nikandros raised his eyebrows and gestured to the remaining glass on the table. Laurent shook his head. Wine wouldn’t help the ache in his head. Food would, but the meats and cheeses also on the table held no appeal. Nikandros shrugged in response and lifted the glass to his lips.

“I’m glad this has been entertaining for you,” said Damianos, having turned to face them both again. “You and that physician.”

“That physician made sure you survived Kastor’s last attempt on your life,” Nikandros said, exasperated. The weariness in those words made it clear he had told Damianos that already. 

“He’s  _ Veretian _ .”

“And as I’ve told you and as you can  _ see _ \--” with one hand the Kyros gestured toward Laurent, “You have well sailed down that -- ”

“We do not have time for old prejudices,” Laurent interrupted before things could get out of hand. The day had already been too long. It would only grow longer if he stood here in silence, no matter how much he wanted to. He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Until your memories return, we need --”

“No.” 

Laurent pulled his hand away from his face at the interruption. “I… beg your pardon?”

Damianos was examining him with a cool gaze, like a puzzle that could not be solved. One he didn’t trust he had all the pieces to. 

“I will not play your games,” he said with finality. 

“Ah. Well.” Laurent took a breath to steady himself. 

It would be easy to act as Damianos remembered him: the awful prince who shrank from his duties and turned up his nose at his own Court, a young man who had taken a slave for the express purpose of torturing him. It would have been easier to let the walls of his youth entomb him again, to keep himself from the pain, to speak to Damianos as he did in political disputes or at tense council meetings when it was necessary. But even at the end of his rope, Laurent was not laced into his old anger and hatred. 

Laurent could not be as cruel as Damianos expected because he loved him. 

“You tend to enjoy my games now. Indulge in them, even,” he said, airly.

“Whatever you want to convince me of -- that you have no idea what happened to me, that there was no ulterior motive -- ”

“Brother,” Nikandros warned.

“Why do you side with him?” Damianos said, turning to his friend. His words were an accusation, full of disbelief and returning anger. “After all you have told me today, of all his lies and games that surely led us here – you would defend him against an unkind remark?”

“As you are my King, so is he.”

Damianos scoffed. “He never needed a guard-dog in Arles,” he said. 

A distinct memory of leading Damen around on a gold leash came to Laurent. He chose not to mention it. 

“But you always have need of your friends,” he said instead, bringing a false assurity to his words. “I would not push away the ones you remember.”

“I will hear  _ none of your lies. _ ”

Laurent did his best not to react to Damianos’ instantaneous anger. He blinked and then turned to Nikandros.  **“** You can go,” he said. 

The man was holding his wine glass -- full again. “Laurent?” 

“You do not have to listen to him,” said Damianos.

“If you are staying,” which Laurent knew he would -- Nikandros had most likely already told the servants his belongings wouldn’t need to be packed just yet, “You should send word to Leda.” 

Nikandros nodded solemnly and stood up. 

“Send for Ivon. He can get your letters to port before the boats sail in the morning.”

“Nik,” Damianos tried again. 

“Go. Sleep,” said Laurent to Nikandros, ushering him towards the door. “I will need your help tomorrow.” 

With Nikandros gone, and the wine with him, Laurent gave himself one moment, and then another, before turning back to Damianos. 

“We need to come to an understanding until you are better.”  _ If,  _ Laurent’s mind whispered,  _ If you get better at all. _

Damianos snorted in response. He stood with his height like a weapon, arms crossed, eyes bright with rage and focus. 

“If you think I had time to orchestrate my husband’s demise while riding through the night, you really must hold me in high esteem,” said Laurent. “But our alliance will not fall apart because you want to throw a tantrum. It’s a waste of energy.” 

“This alliance that you managed to swindle -- ”

“I would remind you that you are not the only king in this room, but the one who cannot recall taking the throne. You will not disrespect something just because you cannot remember working tirelessly to achieve it. Certainly not to me.”

Silence again.

The pounding in Laurent’s head had increased. He had been awake for two sunsets now. 

“How  _ dare _ you think you can speak to me –”

“No, Damen.” The name slipped out, tasting wrong on his tongue. “As far as everyone is concerned, you are very ill, and will remain so for a week.” It was an order in a tone of voice Damianos would recognize from Arles. “You are so ill that you should not leave these chambers for anything. Whatever you can do in that time to remem--” Laurent caught himself, swallowed, and then continued, “To learn what is going on would be much appreciated. You were in the midst of a tax overhaul for the ports. I suggest starting there.”

Without another word, he turned to take his leave. There was no need to tell Damianos that if he wanted for anything, Laurent would be close by. The only person that would be taking comfort in that thought was himself, and there was still too much to do.

“Laurent.” 

He stopped because Damianos had said his name quietly, hesitantly. Almost with familiarity. But he did not turn around. 

“Yes?” he said.

“Who is Leda?”

“She is Nikandros’ wife. We traveled to Ios for the wedding last fall.”

“He didn’t mention her.” There was sadness in that admission. 

Laurent pressed his lips together. “They are expecting their first child this summer,” he told him. 

Nikandros had told them both two weeks ago when he had arrived in Marlas. They had all drank too much in celebration that night, and Laurent had fallen asleep to Damen’s whispering of how great of a father Nikandros would be. 

  
  


+

  
  


Laurent slept fitfully.

He woke with the same headache that had accompanied him to bed, unable to tell the hour through the closed bed-curtains. Wincing as he rolled onto his side, he decided then that detail was unimportant. The servants would come to wake him soon enough.

He tried not to think of what was going on in the room connected to his own, to push his nightmares so far to the back of his mind that he couldn’t recall them. He closed his eyes tightly, and then pried them open when his mind asked  _ What if he never remembers you?  _

“Fate cannot be so cruel,” Laurent muttered. He followed the curves of the curtains and canopy with his his eyes. “They would not take him from me.” 

There had been nothing quite like seeing hatred in Damianos' eyes directed at him -- a look so old but still familiar, like when a limb fell asleep. There had been so much pain. Laurent knew if he thought too hard about it, he would be taken under. 

In the late hours of the night before, he had wondered if Vere would survive the dissolvement of the alliance. Now that train of thought and the emptiness he felt at the idea came back to him. To think that he would be noted in the Veretian histories as the young king who created an alliance for love and then had to watch it burn. 

Laurent wondered that if it came to it, would he end up begging Damianos to stay? Would that -- would  _ he _ \-- be tolerable enough? Or would this palace be abandoned like the other ruins of Marlas while they ruled through letters and visiting representatives? Even if Vere and Akielos came away as allies, could he bear to read the news of Damianos' inevitable marriage to an Akielon noblewoman? 

A knock came at his bedchamber door before Laurent’s mind could spin another scenario to its darkest depths. He pulled open the bed-curtains, welcoming the distraction. 

“Apologies, Your Majesty.” It was Guymar, the Captain of his Guard. “No one has visited Exalted, but he has asked for breakfast. And how to get to the training yard.” He spoke with uncertainty, like he wasn’t sure if this was a problem to disturb Laurent with, but one he would be remiss not to mention. “If he’s contagious --”

“I’ll handle it,” said Laurent, cutting off the rest of the question. 

He dressed in the first pair of trousers and undershirt he found, combing a hand quickly through his hair as he moved to the adjoining door between the royal chambers. 

Laurent found Damianos in the same sitting area as the night before, dressed for the day in a deep red chiton, sandals laced up his calf muscles, and cleanly shaven. 

“What part of ‘so ill you cannot leave’ escaped your understanding?” Laurent asked by way of greeting. 

“You look awful.”

Laurent was sure he did. “Answer the question.”

Damianos offered no response as Laurent came to stand behind a chair, hands folding over the back of it. 

As their eyes locked, Laurent made sure he didn’t flinch away from Damianos’ glare. “I’ll wait,” he said. 

“I’m glad to see the guards know how to keep their mouths shut,” said Damianos. His sarcasm did not mask his lingering anger. “Exactly how far does your reach extend?”

“The same length as yours. From Arles to Isthima.” 

Damianos crossed his arms and strode forward. “I want to leave these rooms.”

“We agreed last night you would not,” said Laurent.

“No, I was told that I would be staying inside, like I am somehow still under your control. Like you have me shackled to the ground. But you and  _ Nikandros _ , insist that is not the case. How long did it take for you to win him over, exactly? He is not overly fond of blondes.”

“I’ve been told I’m tolerable with -- ” Laurent cut himself off, as there was no point in bickering like this. He had the experience and hubris to know that the two of them would only go round in circles for hours. 

“I will leave these rooms,” said Damianos, taking a seat and grabbing a piece of fruit from the table. 

Laurent wanted to insist again that he would do no such thing. Damianos had to stay here. He had to heal He had to try to  _ remember. _ But he didn’t know how to say that without upsetting him -- not this version of Damianos. 

Not when he was still looking at Laurent with so much hatred, and not when Laurent felt like crumbling from that look. 

But perhaps a different approach would work.

“For your twenty-seventh birthday, you wanted to be in Ios,” Laurent began, voice soft and eyes averted. A glimpse into their past could help, maybe. “We had been here, checking on the progress of the building, and then gone to Arles. Instead of taking a ship to your capital, which would have saved all the time in the world, you insisted we travel by land. See the country, stay with the kyroi and governors along the way.” 

Laurent had not said it at the time, but it had sounded like an awful idea. All very arduous and unnecessary. But with his penchant for sea-sickness, neither travel option had seemed ideal, and only one would make Damen happy. 

“We were in Kesus, still too far from Ios,” Laurent recalled. He had chosen a favorite memory of his own. “The sun was setting, and we had been gone for too long without any guards. Which we tend to do often,” he admitted with a small smile to himself, chancing a look at Damianos. 

He had stopped throwing the orange, the fruit now clasped between his hands, attention on Laurent.   
  
“We were making our way back through the fields.”  _ Damen had been holding his hand out for Laurent to take, looking over his shoulder and smiling as he led the way, _ “And you were telling me how the kyros there didn’t mind me. That was your word of choice --  _ mind _ .” And Laurent couldn’t explain his reasoning from there, what had made that moment the right one.    
  
“That was when I asked you to marry me.” 

He let the words settle, holding Damianos’ gaze and refusing to be the first one to break. It seemed Damianos felt the same as he cleared his throat and tilted his head to one side. There was a glimmer in his eye, something Laurent knew from council meetings and dinners when overzealous guests took his time and he couldn’t get away fast enough. 

It was the look of a man who was disinterested, but had been raised in a way that wouldn’t let him him say so.

That look had never been directed at Laurent.

_ “ _ “I am not keeping you prisoner. I am trying to protect you,” he said when Damianos stayed quiet. “You must rest. Please.”

“I would like to speak to Nikandros,” said Damianos.

“He will tell you the same thing.”

Damianos gave a quiet sigh and looked down at the orange in his hand. “I’m sure he will,” he said, almost sadly. Another tired acceptance, but not one Laurent expected to last. 

“We cannot have you asking for directions in your own palace without raising suspicion. I understand that you’re restless and...” Confused, Laurent wanted to add. Upset. “I know it is hard to trust me, or what I say, but I ask that you let me handle this until you have your bearings. What if you remember tomorrow?” Laurent asked, and he hated how the question sounded like a plee. 

Damianos didn’t react and an unnatural quiet settled between them, and within it, all that Laurent had yet to have the time to say. It had only been one night, but there was so much Damianos didn’t know. So much that Laurent wondered if he would actually be able to say any of it. If Damianos would want to know any of it.

A minute passed.

“When did you learn who I was?” said Damianos. 

There was no way to paint this part of their history in a forgiving light. There was no amount of hindsight that could sweeten the story.

“I knew from the first moment I saw you,” Laurent said, his words as clipped and emotionless as he could manage while holding his husband’s gaze.

On a list of things they had moved past together, that Laurent had tried to let himself be free from, that was the crux of it all. 

“You killed my brother. Of course I knew who you were,” Laurent offered the same explanation as he had given years ago. Damen had been surprised back then that Laurent had known all along, but there had been a fragile trust between them. Hope and resignation. A battle still to be fought. 

The man before him now knew none of that. 

He didn’t know how Laurent had summoned him after the Battle of Charcy, so soon after their one night together and a missed rendezvous, knowing that he could no longer pretend that Damen was only a slave. Damianos didn’t know how Laurent’s heart had ached at the site of the man dressed for his proper station, his commanding presence nearly overbearing. He didn’t know how it had felt for Laurent to speak of their night in Ravenel with harsh words and as if it had been a ploy.

“Please,” Damianos ran a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Leave.” 

Laurent would not be able to make him understand any of that part of their past, and of how it had lead to the palace at Marlas, and wedding vows. He knew he couldn’t do it justice -- at least, not today. 

Without another word, he did as he was asked. Laurent left. 

  
  


+

  
  


The council meeting had only been delayed by one day, but all the papers sitting before Laurent and the council members made him feel like they had postponed for weeks. 

“Lord Dukas of Mellos. Lord Kritikos of Aegina. This is his second quarter with nothing paid.”

Waleran of Arles, the Veretian Master of Coin, was reading his list of names like a man whose report had been moved until the following meeting, and then the one following that, and then put off again. 

Very Slowly. 

“Lady Berthelemi of Lys. Her sons brought a partial payment. Lord Maparlier of Ladehors. The Lord Dessouz Levre from Ladehors as well….” he drawled on. 

Laurent admired the man’s pettiness, but it would have been very unbecoming for a king to slouch down in his seat as he wished to do. 

“Have collectors been sent to these houses?” Annis, one of the council-women, asked with her arms crossed and auburn brows raised. She had no stipulations about letting her boredom show on any topic. 

Waleran looked up from his parchment with a frown, hand already out to take the next paper from the Akielon Master of Coin. “Of course. But just because a lord is reminded he is late with his payment does not mean he willingly gives over the coin.”

Annis pursed her lips. “Mmmmm. And your collectors don’t stay to… collect?” 

“In most cases, that is not necessary.” 

“If all these names here are the outliers, it would seem both countries may need to consider a different way of procuring the payments on time,” said Annis in a simperingly tone. Her eyebrows had somehow gone even higher than before. 

“The penalty for the late payments simply needs to be higher. Those who still do not make their payments on time, and then miss the following one should be penalized again,” said Laurent. The idea had come up before with Damen, but he couldn’t recall if they had come up with any solutions. 

Waleran shook his head. “If the Kings tax the lords so highly --”

“Why should they not pay a higher amount?” said Lydus, another council member. “Their farmers pay tithes to work the land. Merchants already have high enough rates -- ”

“I thought those were in line with Patras’s and Vask’s fees?” asked Annis, looking to Laurent for confirmation.

He gave a nod. “Barely lower.” But that made all the difference.

“The taxation of the lords in both countries is in proportion with the amount of land they have,” Explained Waleran hautly, nearly concealing an eye roll. 

“First, let us collect these late payments,”ordered Laurent. When a glance around the table confirmed no objections, he turned his full attention to Waleran. “Send out the collectors first to those who owe Vere more than one quarter of taxes. They have my permission to do what is necessary to bring the coin back with them -- short of killing,” he amended quickly. 

“Do the same for Akielos, Pyris.” Nikandros said to the other Master of Coin. As the Kyros of Ios, his place on the Kings’ Council was not official, but any kyros or Veretian governor was welcome at these meetings. But with Damianos indisposed, he spoke for his King and country.

“Let us hope your lists are shorter the next time,” Laurent said, the order clear and the topic closed. “What else?”

“The slave revolts in Patras are ongoing,” said Lydus **,** shuffling the papers in front of him and then following a line of writing with his finger. “The outlying towns closer to the border have not yet been affected, and the royal slaves remain in Bazal, but…. ”

“Until Patras asks for aid, we will not interfere.” 

Both Vere and Akielos had been biding their time since the revolts had first been reported in Patras. Laurent and Damen responded to Torveld’s personal correspondence with what compassion they could muster for his country’s turmoil, which was very little. When asked about the revolts in Court or even in council meetings, their responses had been unsympathetic. 

It had been a foolhardy attempt to abolish slavery in Akielos so early in Damen’s reign, but it had been done. With neither nation tolerating the owning of other people, there was not much Patras could be hoping for from their western allies. After all, any fleeing slaves could find refuge over the countries’ borders -- they just had to get there.

“The shelters have what they need?” Laurent knew they did, but it was comforting to double-check. 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” 

Laurent gave a nod of approval. “Excellent. What’s next?” 

“Is there any news on Exalted’s findings with the ports?” 

Of all that Laurent had read through last night, he had yet to find those notes. 

“I think that’s enough talk of taxation for the day,” Laurent said with a tight-lipped smile. “Damianos will be able to update you on that next week.” 

As Annis brought up the road maintenance being done in Lys and Chasteigne, Laurent gestured for a nearby servant and asked them to bring more wine. He could indulge their advisors and keep them from worrying, but he would require some fortification to keep up the ruse. 

  
  


+

  
  


Laurent hadn’t found a moment to himself that night until after dinner, and he took that moment with his back against his chamber door to bow his head and breathe.

_ “Heavy is the head that wears the crown,”  _ his mother had said. Then Auguste had taken to repeating it when their father had been pulled further away by duty and war. 

Laurent knew he could do it all, whatever that entailed, because there had been no other options after his brother’s death. When he had been planning and dreaming of taking the throne from his uncle, he had always imagined well-meaning advisors by his side that he tolerated, long nights that even those of late couldn’t compare to, and a loneliness that would seep into his bones but keep him safe.

That had all changed when Damen came along and they both had their kingdoms and crowns. Laurent had accepted that boundless support like a blooming flower in the sun. He worked to be worthy of it everyday, as he did with all things Damen willingly gave, and to reciprocate. To not see it as a weakness. 

What irony it was, Laurent thought, to miss someone who was only on the other side of the wall. 

Sighing to himself, and not letting those thoughts linger -- at least Damianos was alive and there was hope he would recover his memories -- Laurent moved from the door and unclasped his cloak, throwing it over a chair.

After unlacing and removing his jacket, he found himself idly sorting through the letters on his desk. He stopped on one with a familiar seal. 

“Of course,” Laurent said to the empty room with a shake of his head.

After so many attempts that were only met by interference, Lady Jokaste now wrote directly to Laurent. From the very first correspondence when they had been trying to reunite mother and child, Damen had handed her response over with unsubtle exasperation. Laurent had taken pleasure in crafting that reply. 

Now, the letters were short and formal since Jokaste had no one to manipulate or persuade, and they only ever spoke of her son. This letter was most likely an inquiry of when it would be best for a visit next. 

Truly, Laurent wanted Jokaste as far away from Damen and Marlas as possible on any given day, and found her father’s estate in Aegina barely a tolerable distance. She had committed treason; no tales of misplaced love or claims that she had saved Damen’s life by sending him Vere would change Laurent’s opinion. 

It was merely a coincidence that her letter had arrived today, and Laurent knew that. He did. But standing at his desk and staring at the light blue wax imprint, Aegina didn’t feel like it was far enough away. 

He would need a clearer head than he currently had to respond to any of the letters, or to make sense of the papers he had neglected before, but this one…. 

A better king would force himself to sober up and tend to the tasks at hand, but Laurent didn’t want to be a better king at the moment. He wanted to see Damianos, if only to have him glare and grunt in response to what Laurent had to tell him. If only to see the disbelief in his eyes and then pretend like it had no effect on Laurent at all.

With Jokaste’s letter in hand and the excuse of the child and those in Vask to start a conversation, he came to the adjoining door with a purpose and turned the knob. When it didn’t give under his hand, he tried again with no more luck than before. 

“Really,” he said, amused in the way he was with a child’s puzzle. He hadn’t tried the door this morning, barely having time to dress and eat a semblance of a meal before someone was at the door asking for something. 

He wouldn’t fault Damianos for locking the door, but he would knock. 

Laurent did so and waited. He knocked again when enough time had passed for the other man to reach the door from any part of his chambers. 

There was no point in it, but the longer he stood waiting, the more Laurent strained his ears to hear anything from the other side. He rapped his knuckles against the heavy wood loudly one more time. The only sound he could hear was the crumpling of the letter in his other hand.

The door remained closed, and Laurent went back to his desk. Throwing down the letter, he reached for the carafe of wine and poured himself a glass. Bringing it to his mouth, he grimaced at the smell, and then the taste. It was just as stale and disgusting as the others he’d had before. 

When the glass was empty, he poured another. And then another.

When Laurent woke slumped in his chair in the middle of the night, it took a moment of squinting in the darkness before he found and tore up the letters he had written. The remainder of the wine was taken with him to bed after. 

He did not try the door in the morning. 

He didn’t even spare it a glance.

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Two

  
  


Damianos stayed in the royal chambers for five days. 

Since the night Laurent had found the adjoining door locked, he had buried himself even deeper in daily tasks and appointments. It was easier to work than to dwell on Damianos turning him away. It was also quite easy to ignore the pointed looked Nikandros sent his way. 

Those five days passed. 

For all the good Paschal’s sleeping tonics could do, and for all the wine he managed to keep down, the thought of spending the day with Damianos had him awake before the sun on the sixth day. He had been bathed and dressed before the servants came along to offer assistance, and then found himself once again at his desk. 

He wouldn’t be unhappy for Damen’s correspondence to go back to the proper recipient, as it seemed that for every three letters he had responded to, twice that many would appear with a messenger in an hour’s time. Even now, he was more engrossed in a report from Vannes than with breakfast. 

There had been a raid just beyond Vere’s borders in the Great Northern Forests. In what appeared to be a rush of ongoing violence between two tribes, the details of the attack were lacking, but the request for aid had not come from the tribes involved, but outsiders. It was a break from at least twenty-five years of the Forest Folk handling their own grievances, but all they asked for was a mediator. Whomever was chosen needed to be beyond the Veretian border as soon as possible. 

The letter was dated seven days ago. 

Laurent sighed to himself, and read through the report a second time. There was nothing he could do about it from Marlas, not with the delay, and that added another weight to his shoulders. He trusted that Vannes had already selected a representative from Arles and sent them into the forest. He would receive that report in a day or two. 

Such was life when both Kings resided in a border provence in the opposite direction of their capitals. 

Before he could let that train of thought take him, a sharp knock pulled him towards the adjoining door. Laurent’s side had stayed unlocked -- there had only been two times when he had locked Damen out in their years together, only to have the stubborn barbarian come through the main chamber door anyways -- but he appreciated the courtesy. 

“Hello,” said Damianos when Laurent opened the door. He was still cleanly shaven with his red cape over his shoulders and gold laurels in his hair.

Laurent wished his heartbeat hadn’t picked up with just one word. “Hello.”

One of the palace cats, a grey shorthair, meowed from Damianos' side of the doorway and weaved its way between his and Laurent’s legs. Damianos frowned as it slinked over to an ornate rug and flopped down. 

“There are so many cats,” he said with disdain. 

“They help with the vermin.” Laurent had won this argument early on, even introducing the smaller felines to the palace in Ios. 

Damianos shook his head as the cat gave another meow, and then as if he had only just remembered who he was speaking to, he crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re to go into town?” he asked.

It wasn’t an accusation, but the words made Laurent feel like he had done something wrong. He fought the urge to cross his own arms. “We should be back before the afternoon. I can show you the training yards if -- ”

“Yes. Fine.” 

After so many days where Damianos had nothing but time to think, to work himself into a rage and then out of it, Laurent knew he couldn’t be unsteady. He had to be the king he was with Damen at his side, a better one than he had been for the past five days. He had to be reliable.

“There’s nothing pressing until dinner. Your letters,” he gestured towards the desk. “Nothing time-sensitive has come in. Or anything unexpected.”

“No wars or the like that I should know about?”

Laurent pointedly pushed Vannes signature and the date on the report out of his mind. “Thankfully, no.” 

“You have my notes from the ports?”

Laurent turned to gather the letters and papers. It had been a struggle to find the original letters Damen had hidden in an Akielon epic on his bedside table. From what Laurent could tell, the pages contained nothing of importance. 

“We don’t know who you spoke to last, unless you found something else?” He said, turning back and finding that Damianos was looking not at him, but at his hand holding the papers. There, just under the edge of emerald velvet and silver lacing, Laurent’s gold cuff showed. 

Its mate was still on Damianos' left wrist, which the other man brought up and encircled with the opposite hand. 

“Nik says we chose these over wedding bands.”

Laurent, unsure, paused. He chose his words carefully to be sure not to offend. “We already had them and their meaning was clear enough.” 

In fact, they had sparked a bit of a trend, though he didn’t think Damianos would like to hear how jewelry makers had been commissioned for matching cuffs more often than rings in the border provinces. Or how the first time they had seen a couple with them in a village, Damen had turned to Laurent with such a warm smile, his dimple on display. 

Damianos examined the engraving that had been added for their wedding, his with the phrase in Veretian whereas Laurent’s was in Akielon. “When did you…?”

Laurent’s memory took him back to a room in Ravenel, to risks and his own determination.  _ “Tomorrow you leave. But you’re mine now.”  _ Then on to a quickly constructed dais, his heartbeat in his ears and a quiet request: _ “Wear it for me.” _

“It was a gift when we united forces to take back our thrones. When you were freed before that, you chose to leave that one on.” 

_ “Sentiment?” _ Laurent had asked when the last thing he should have cared about was the Prince-Killer.  _ “Something like that.” _

Damianos held his gaze as silence fell between them. A finger still traced the engraving as he considered what he had been told, probably comparing it to whatever barebones summary Nikandros had been able to get out. Then he smiled sickly. 

“You really do enjoy playing with people, don’t you?”

Laurent handed him all the letters and tax notes. “Come,” he said.

There was nothing particularly special about town, nothing Damianos needed to see. In that sense, that was why they needed to go. Marlas, and all of Delfeur, was home to people whose culture had never been purely Akielon or Veretian. Despite the wars fought over where borders should be drawn on maps, or maybe because of that, the alliance between the two countries had been welcomed by the people. Or, at the very least, they hadn’t opposed it like some of their countrymen. 

It was early enough in the day that the merchant’s stands were still full of the wares for sale, but the morning rush of locals had come and gone. The streets were still crowded, but nothing like they were in Arles or Ios, and the murmured titles of both kings followed them from the palace gates to the edge of the market. 

“That man has spices from Akielos.” Those were the first words either of them had spoken since leaving Laurent’s chambers, and he kept his voice low. 

Their Guard was a respectable distance behind, as always, and none of their people were close enough to overhear what was being said, but still Laurent was cautious. 

“He overcharges,” he continued, “But he’s kind. The cloth merchant there has Kemptian silk.” Damianos looked to the woman leaning over a bolt of aquamarine fabric and then turned back with a raised brow. “Well, she  _ claims _ she has Kemptain silk.”

“It’s nice to see such honest merchants,” said Damianos, wryly. 

“They pay their taxes, same as the rest,” Laurent replied, gesturing for him to follow around the bend.

“My Kings!” The Akielon baker exclaimed, arms raised in greeting, as they approached his stall. “What a beautiful day, is it not?”

“Ask about his grandson,” Laurent whispered.

“Why?”

“He was selected to serve at the Kingsmeet,” he explained and then smiled before turning. “Hello, Irus.”

The man was middle-aged and had the belly of someone who appreciated his own creations, a welcoming smile like his King, and lines around his eyes that matched a happy life. 

“I told you I would find my aunt’s diples recipe!” He stated proudly, a finger raised to the sky as he pulled out a plate with the oblong pastries drizzled in honey. “I hoped you would come today! I had them last week as well, but the batch wasn’t as good. These? Perfect.”

Each king tried one of the offered pastries, and then another, as it would have been rude not to. Whether he meant it or not, Damianos proclaimed they were the best diples he had ever had, yes, even better than what the cooks made in Ios.

“How is your grandson doing?” asked Damianos, refusing a third pastry.

“Ah, Amyntas is so proud!” Irus said, a hand over his heart. “And tired. He writes that the training is hard, but worth it, Exalted. It is kind of you to remember!”

“I wanted to serve at the Kingsmeet when I was younger, but the vow of silence would have been an issue,” said Damianos. He smiled and his dimple showed. “The Kyros of Ios served.” 

Laurent reached for another of the pastries, watching Damianos' honest expression and interest. 

“Yes, so you said! Kyros Nikandros. Is he still in Marlas?”

“For a little while longer,” said Damianos. 

“He must have some of the psomi, then.” Irus gestured towards the large loaves of bread Laurent knew to be hearty and delicious. “Take him diples as well. I will not sell them all.” 

With a promise to return for the baked goods, and delaying twice as Irus pulled them back into conversation, Laurent and Damianos continued through the town.

They passed an inn, loud music floating out the door, and the stables where messengers and travelers were coming and going. Near where the road widened to lead away from town, a fair worker called after them.

“Exalted! You said the next time we were in town we could wrestle!”

Damianos laughed at that, the same laugh he had with Irus, and one that Laurent knew intimately. “Not today!”

“You keep putting him off,” Laurent told him, shaking his head with amusement. 

“I’m looking out for his pride.” 

“Or maybe protecting yours?” It was a natural response, the words out before he could think. Then, “I’m sorry, I only meant….” 

Damianos brushed off whatever explanation Laurent was going to offer as they rounded a corner. His gaze caught on a nondescript building with a particular circular symbol painted on the door, but no knob for one to turn. Gathered around the door were four women slightly too done up for a day in town, winking and smiling at passersby. 

“Don’t stare,” Laurent said quietly, slowing his steps to match Damianos'.

Damianos looked back to him, a crease between his brow, then back to the women. “Have we -- you allow them to do their business so prominently?” His eyes shifted to the guard as they closed in, then back to Laurent. 

“The Maitresse pays her taxes on time and the Town’s Guard has yet to have to resolve a conflict for her or any of her girls.” He waved to the ladies as he always did when he passed by. 

They giggled. A particularly saucy brunette blew him a kiss. 

“That’s all it takes for you to approve, then? Timely payments?” 

“That is all we both ask, yes. Kara is a lovely woman. Her establishment is very clean.” Or so he had overheard from the men. 

“Have we…. We haven’t been there, have we?” Damianos asked, furrowing his brow. 

“Of course not.” 

“But….” 

The idea that they had visited the town’s brothel was absurd. Even with their marriage accepted by the Veretian Council, it was still frowned upon for Laurent to be alone in a room with  _ Vannes. _ The only times he had ever been in a brothel had been in Nesson-Eloy on the way to the border, which Damianos knew -- 

Laurent inhaled sharply, stopping mid-stride. 

No, Damianos wouldn’t know that. 

“Do you -- ” Laurent turned to face him, searching once again for the right words. His thoughts were out of order, the memory a blur of burning chalis in the air and a shortness of breath that came from running through the streets, but also from Damen. 

“You pulled out a window grate,” he said. “We were trying to outrun my uncle’s men and meet…. You pushed a ridiculous chest in front of the door.” When that garnered no response, Laurent reached out and gripped Damianos’ wrist. “I had a sapphire earring and we went to an inn.” 

The guards were too close now, and the only response Damianos gave him was a minute shake of his head. 

It would have been too easy for a simple walk around Marlas to heal Damen. Laurent turned so he wouldn’t have to hide his disappointment.

“Are we finished here?” Damianos asked as he pulled his hand from Laurent’s grip.

“There’s another inn around the corner, and a sweetshop.”

“We’ll have enough from Irus. Can we go back to the palace?”

Laurent acquiesced. 

They walked back in the same silence they had come to town in. Once back, they performed the illusion of entering one set of chambers. As there was no excuse to linger, Laurent made his way to their adjoined door. 

“Wait.”

“The training yards are close to the stables,” said Laurent. 

“Why did you help the Akielon slaves?”

“What?” said Laurent, turning from the door. 

“In Arles. When I was sent to you,” said Damianos. “I asked that you free them and you… turned it into a political bargain with Patras.” Disbelief was clear in his words, in a breath of laughter. 

Laurent paused, considering his words again. “I didn’t know they were being mistreated. For all of my uncle’s despicable habits, slavery was never a concern. My hatred for you was personal. It didn’t extend to them.”

Damianos accepted the answer with a curt nod. 

“What do you remember last of Arles?” He knew his error in not asking before. 

“You killed a boar and your horse on the hunt with Torveld,” said Damianos. “I didn’t see you at all the next day.”

That was because Laurent had spent the first day between the hunt and the second assassination attempt stroking Torveld’s ego for the slaves’ benefit and securing the support he would need to fight his uncle later on. Once Torveld had departed, his focus had been on Nicaise and earning himself back into the child’s good graces. Not that it had taken long. 

“Soon after, my uncle tried to have me killed and place the blame on you,” he explained. “We both clearly survived, but you tried to escape. It did not go well.”

“And then?”

“I was ordered here, to Delfeur, for border duty. I wanted to leave you to rot in that room for all the trouble you had caused but you begged to come with me.” 

Laurent almost hadn’t let him. Four years later and he couldn’t say exactly why he had changed his mind. How he had sat in his room the night before he planned to ride into his uncle’s latest plan and thought that of all the allies he had acquired through the years, the Prince-Killer would be the most helpful.

“If I made it to Akielos, I could get away,” said Damianos. He had taken a seat on the sette, his hands clasped and elbows on his knees. 

“No.” Laurent shook his head. “I’m sure that was part of it, but you told me you wanted to prevent war. You didn’t, of course. But here we are.”

“Here we are.”

Laurent moved back across the room, sitting down in his favorite chair. 

“You can ask me anything. I have no reason to lie to you.” 

Damianos’ eyes were unreadable, his lips in a thin line. He shook his head. “I thought of nothing but going home since I was captured, which to me was only weeks ago. It’s all I want now. Nikandros says this is my home, instead of Ios, and you promise the same. I -- ” He cut himself off, and closed his eyes for a moment. Then, “All of this is mine. Ours. You said from Arles to Isthma. What was the cost?”

“Men died fighting for their rightful kings.” It was a statement of fact. 

“Kastor?” 

“The usurpers were dealt with when we took Ios.”

“Jokaste?” 

Laurent didn’t let himself react to the name. “Her child offered her an escape.” He didn’t know when Damianos had learned of the pregnancy, but he didn’t look surprised by the announcement. “She claimed it was Kastor’s, but then yours when her life seemed forfeit.”

Damianos sat up straight. “And now?”

“She’s changed her tune again. But it’s held since she settled in Aegina.” Her letter still waited with Laurent’s other papers. “We see the child a few times a year.”

Silence fell between them, Damianos looking between Laurent and the opposite wall, and then back again. Laurent wanted to cross the distance of the sitting area and take his hand in a small act of comfort. Before returning from Fortaine, he wouldn’t have hesitated. 

“You always have a plan,” Damianos said, hesitant and begrudgingly. 

“That doesn’t mean it is a good one. I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable, but you are a good king, Damianos. Trust that you wouldn’t align yourself with the enemy that you remember me to be.”

A nod.

Laurent waited, this time his fingers clawing into the armrests. “I -- I do love you,” he said. 

The tightness in his chest both dissipated and then returned three-fold as he found none of the familiar warmth in Damianos’ eyes. He didn’t find any emotion at all. 

“How do we rule?”

Laurent did his best to explain their daily calendar, the appointments and council meetings they had weekly, and how else they spent their time. Damianos trained with the men each afternoon, and Laurent could be found in the stables after breakfast. Dinner was a court event. They went into town weekly if their schedules allowed. On occasion, they would disguise themselves and take political matters into their own hands. Sometimes, they did it just to see Nikandros frown.

“That cannot be true,” said Damianos. A corner of his mouth quirked up.

“He’s easy to rattle. We would be remiss to let those opportunities pass. He comes here often enough. In fact, before my coronation,” said Laurent, “we pretended to be merchants with an old friend to bring down part of the illegal slave trade. Everyone believed I was hunting and you were here, but -- are you alright?”

The half-smile was gone. Now, Damianos’ brow was pinched and two fingers rubbed his temple. 

“Should I call for Paschal?” asked Laurent, moving to the edge of his chair. 

“No.”

Laurent didn’t believe him. 

“It’s only a headache,” said Damianos. “They come and go.”

“Paschal knows about this?” 

“As long as they don’t get worse, it’s nothing to worry about,” said Damianos. It sounded like he was repeating verbatim.

Laurent wanted to ask Damianos to tell him if the pain grew worse. He wanted to know if there was any rhyme or reason to the timing, if it was his mind healing or only coincidence. For all of Laurent’s reading, and all of Paschal’s promises, there wasn’t a way to be sure.

“Did we really pretend to be merchants to stop a slaver?” asked Damianos, pulling Laurent back from his worries. 

“Yes.” 

“And we hid in a brothel?” 

“That was before either of us were crowned,” said Laurent. 

When he thought back to their campaign toward Delfeur, he could admit that luck had played a heavy hand in keeping him alive. Luck, and Damen. Leading his uncle’s men away from the messenger had been necessary. Running across rooftops had been exhilarating, if not the best way to keep the men distracted.

He still remembered the frantic beating of his heart when Damen had suggested they split up. The thought that he could trust the slave to come back to him, and that for some reason, Laurent hoped he did. 

“I would like to hear those stories.” Damianos looked amused, like his pain had already faded. 

“Later.” Laurent stood to take his leave. “I will let you rest, and I’ll see you at dinner.”

  
  


+

  
  


The courtly ritual of strolling through the gardens always reminded Laurent of his youth in Arles. 

Couples lingering on benches, other guests walking arm in arm -- these simple acts brought Laurent back to his time spent sewing plots, of the debauchery on benches he had ignored in an attempt to secure alliances. Even the flowers, when in bloom, felt unseemly to him. As if they were witness to talks of coups disguised with laughter and compliments.

With his back against stone and eyes shadowed by the overhanging vines, Laurent sipped from his glass of wine and watched Damianos.

The Akielon King had been making the rounds since dinner had ended, and was now speaking with one of his generals and a Veretian lord. Whatever the topic was, he looked intrigued, his expression honest; there was nothing of his tired and tolerating frown Laurent had learned to spot across a room. He patiently waited his turn to speak, nodding along to what the general was saying.

With this being only Damianos’ second night back in Court, Laurent was impressed with the ease the other man had with it all. Not that he should have been. Damen’s charisma had always been so effortless. Frustratingly so, in Laurent’s opinion. 

“And we were so worried he wouldn’t be able to handle this,” Nikandros said, coming to Laurent’s right and gesturing across the garden.

It had been a joint effort between the two of them the night before, whispering the names and small anecdotes about the present courtiers while Damianos accepted well wishes and fabricated tales of his illness. 

“He could charm a serpent into eating its own tail,” Laurent commented, taking a sip from of wine. 

“Or into falling in love with him.” 

“Is that really the best you have after all this time?” he asked, unimpressed. 

Nikandros only shrugged in response. 

For a lingering moment, they both watched Damianos as it was his turn to speak. All the people gathered around him were caught like moths to a flame. 

“I forget sometimes how well he’s suited for the crown. That his heart isn’t a weakness,” said Nikandros. 

“He doesn’t know Veretian politics,” said Laurent. 

“He has you.”

Laurent took another sip of his wine. It truly was an awful blend. 

“Damen said that your time in town was… nice. You were not as he expected.”

“Yes, I’m sure the fact that I didn’t have a commoner punished for sneezing in my direction had to surprise him.”

Nikandros shook his head. “He mentioned the few vendors with fake goods. And the prostitutes,” he said.

“He wasn’t overly fond of them, no.” 

“He thinks they should be taxed higher.”

“Of course he does,” said Laurent. It was always taxes with Damen. “He can bring that up at the next council meeting, as long as his reasoning is more than his lack of approval.” 

Across the garden, another pair of courtiers had stopped to join the growing council around Damianos. 

It would have been so easy for Laurent to join them, to stand beside Damianos and share in the conversation, to let himself be surrounded by that effortless charisma and sincerity. But he knew that his presence would not be welcomed so much as tolerated. 

“It’s been seven days.” he said, lips against the edge of his glass.  _ He doesn’t remember me, _ his mind whispered. But that wasn’t exactly true. Damianos remembered him, but only the withered version of himself Laurent had been at twenty. Cruel. Frigid.

However Damianos saw him now, whatever the last two days had shown him, Laurent knew they stood on a delicate precipice. He could tell the other man every single day that he loved him, but it wouldn’t matter if Damianos didn’t believe him. His lack of response to the admission the day earlier was proof enough of that.

Damianos stood across the garden, and he was the center of Laurent’s world. But since excusing himself from the table, his eyes had not met Laurent’s once. Now, he was laughing with Veretian nobles like he trusted them. 

Laurent’s thoughts corrected themselves into the proper order.  _ He does not love me. _

He wouldn’t ask himself if it would have been better for Damianos not to remember him at all. 

He didn’t think he would like the answer. 

  
  


+

  
  


Meals, training, appointments with eager lords and merchants -- the daily routine was easy for Laurent to fall back into, and seemingly for Damianos follow. Peace-time was a boring stretch of days for those in charge, full of legislation and the parts of kingship Laurent had teased Auguste for having to endure while he spent the days care-free. 

A week passed, and while the alliance thrived, Damianos did not look at Laurent with any familiarity. 

Laurent had all but given up on sleep.


	3. Three

“You see, Your Majesty, if we do not quarantine the peacocks when the mating season comes -- ”

“We could build them a pen,” offered Laurent. He slowed down his steps so Lord Bilios could keep up. ‘Quarantine’ was such a harsh word.

“Yes, a pen! Last year, the males ran rampant through the gardens all spring. Lord Berenger’s pet almost lost a hand, if I recall.”

That had been because Ancel had gotten too close to a male peacock’s tail after being warned multiple times beforehand to stop acting like a dunce and leave the birds be. Laurent hid a smile behind his hand and faked a cough as he remembered a belligerent peacock and Ancel’s scream.

  


“The caretakers were still learning, as were we all,” he said once he had wiped all emotion from his face.

“I don’t think Lord Berenger has been back to Marlas since!”

“He has,” said Laurent. “A few times.”

“Oh. Has his pet?”

“Yes.”

But Ancel had refused to enter the gardens on those subsequent visits.

“Either way, Sire, the birds add so much to the gardens, but my point is …”

Laurent tuned out most of the lord’s argument as they walked, nodding when appropriate and humming here and there. The peacocks had been an addition to the Court early last year, and there had been some growing pains… and some immature behavior from certain pets in regards to them.

As the issue wasn’t time sensitive, Laurent didn’t feel the overwhelming need to rush off and demand some sort of pen be built for the birds. It could wait a day, or a week, but there was no harm in letting the old man talk.

It was when they reached the hallway leading to the royal chambers, guards stationed to each side to keep unwelcomed guests out, that Laurent stopped and turned to Lord Bilios. His freedom was merely a sentence or two away.

“I’m terribly sorry, but there’s an issue that requires my attention.” There most certainly was not, but the lord didn’t need to know that. “I will consider the pens,” he promised. And he would. “We will have something in place before the spring comes.”

“We have to consider the safety,” said Lord Bilios. “For us and the birds.”

Laurent nodded his ascent, and then left the old man with the guards.

He had originally been on his way down to the stables, but that had been hours ago. He had made the mistake of stopping by the kitchens first, and then visiting with Paschal. By the time he had actually tried to go for his ride, there had been a gaggle of lords and ladies wanting to speak with him.

Now, it was nearing midday, but Lord Bilios had been the last waiting to speak with him, and he had waited ever so patiently. With all of that out of the way now, Laurent felt that there was still time for a ride. The slight detour to his rooms wouldn’t delay him much longer. He could make note to think about the peacocks and then be on his merry way.

Coming to the dual chamber doors, Laurent gave a slight pause and then went for Damianos’ door with some ridiculous sense of determination, only to find that the other man was not alone.

“My apologies,” he said, looking between Damianos and Paschal and then taking a step back towards the door. “I can come back.”

“No need. We’re just about done,” the physician said over his shoulder before focusing back on his patient. “How are the headaches? Are they happening more often? Less?”

“I had one after the council meeting -- ”

“Well, that’s to be expected.”

“But otherwise… no more than before,” Damianos said with a shake of his head.

“And the pain from them?”

“The same.”

That had Paschal frowning, but only just. “Are you dreaming when you sleep?” he asked.

“Nothing sensical.”

“If you can remember them in the morning, write them down. Your mind might be showing you the past.”

“I would prefer for it to show me while I’m awake,” said Damianos, at which Paschal clicked his tongue.

“Others who have lost memories have claimed that their dreams were sometimes too realistic. Later, it was because they were memories. Our minds protect us -- it’ll offer you what you can handle.”

Laurent continued to stand off to the side and out of the way.

“And did these people -- did they remember? Eventually?” Damianos asked.

“Most of them, yes. Some recovered very quickly, others needed longer. In some cases, it seems like an event triggered the memories to come back,” Paschal explained.

“Most of them,” said Damianos.

Paschal said nothing after that. He did a few more tests that Laurent couldn’t make sense of, but Damianos tolerated.

“Was there something you needed?” Damianos asked him once Paschal moved back to his medicine bag.

Laurent felt a flush coming over his cheeks, like a child asking his mother for a favor. As much as he felt the urge to avert his eyes, he didn’t allow it. He squared his shoulders instead and if possible, tried to stand up straighter.

“I’m heading down to the stables,” he said. “If you are planning to train, I thought we might walk down together.”

“Alright.”

It was such an simple reply.

“Please don’t take any hits to the head, Exalted. You shouldn’t be thrown down either, if that can be managed,” said Paschal in the same way he always advised Damen after an injury, knowing full well his advice would be ignored.

“It’s only Nikandros. He won’t beat me,” said Damianos, like there was no alternative. 

“Is he aware of that?” Laurent had to ask, a brow raised. He didn’t mention the time Damianos had spent away from training, or that Nikandros had four more years experience that Damianos had forgotten. Some of that time, Nikandros had spent training with Veretians. 

Instead, he turned to Paschal. “I’ll be sure the Kyros knows.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Now, here are your tonics.” The physician handed Damianos a few little bottles. “And since you’re here…. ” He held out one bottle to Laurent.

The liquid was the cloudy green he had grown to expect with a sleep aid.

“Are you ill?” asked Damianos once they were alone. Laurent detected a slight edge of concern in his words.

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you were?”

Laurent wouldn’t give Damianos the pleasure of knowing that he had assumed correctly. They were both guilty of downplaying their weaknesses, but Laurent was never the one in mortal peril.

“It’s a sleeping tonic,” Laurent said. “Works better than the wine.”

“You hate wine.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” Damianos said in the self-assured way that had driven Laurent crazy in the past.

When he had been on the road to Ravenel, the ragtag group of soldiers and the slave in tow, Laurent had known it would have been a poor choice to ignore Damen’s experience and success on the battlefield. Everything he had said, any advice, had been the right course of action to take. What made it unbearable was that Damen had known it. He never pushed Laurent to do as he suggested, but his tone of voice -- just like it was now -- had been that of a man who knew he was right and wouldn’t mind watching one fail for refusing to listen.

But Laurent’s drinking habits, or lack thereof, were not something he broadcasted. Not even back in Arles.

It wasn’t something Damianos should know.

“How…” Laurent began and frowned. “I drink wine.”

“And you hate it.”

“No I do not,” said Laurent.

Yes, he did. It had been rare before Damianos’ accident that he took a sip from the glass at dinner and didn’t ignore it for the rest of the night. Laurent hated the taste, and he hated the feeling of being out of control. But now, there was something about the numbness that came after the lack of control. Laurent had sought it the day Damen had been gifted to him as a slave, and he drank now for the same reasons.

Damianos snorted, but seemed to decide there was no point in arguing. He didn’t seem concerned where his information had come from, either.

“I thought you went riding in the mornings?” Damianos pushed up from his seat and walked towards the door. Laurent fell into step beside him.

“A few things came up,” he said, and left it at that.

They spoke of nothing of consequence on the way down to the grounds. The chill Laurent had dressed for that morning had nearly burnt off, but the clouds cast everything in a dreary light. As they came to the training yard, the sound of metal against metal were few and far. More prominent was the chatter of men’s voices.

“Your Majesty, are you finally gracing us with your presence?” called Lazar from one group, lazily twirling his sword.

“Not today,” Laurent called back, and went to nod his goodbye to Damianos.

“Has Exalted not forgiven you for beating him the last time?” It was a sly question, with raised eyebrows and a smirk.

“What last time?” Damianos asked, softly. 

“I think the better question is if your ego has recovered from the last time His Majesty put you in the dirt,” Pallas said slyly to Lazar, strolling over. “You were down in less than two minutes, wasn’t it?”

“One minute,” said Laurent with a little smirk. He chose to ignore Damianos’ barely concealed confusion.

The training yard filled with laughter as Lazar looked down at his boots.

“Lazar -- he was one of your uncle’s men,” Damianos said to Laurent.

They had gone over their guards before, and then again.

“Yes.”

“And now he’s a palace guard.”

“Jord wanted him turned off from the border company,” he explained. “Your argued against it.”

“I argued against it,” Damianos repeated. He looked to Lazar, then back to Laurent.

“You liked his worth ethic. And he makes Pallas happy.” The last bit was a nice accoutrement to the rest. If Laurent took pleasure in watching the slight widening of Damianos’ eyes at that, no one had to know. “Don’t worry, he’s never beaten you in sparring.”

“Nor you, apparently.” A dry tone. A brow was raised in disbelief.

“Ah, right,” he said, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword and offering the yard a glance, sizing up the men available. Laurent knew that tone of Damianos’ well, too.

He recalled the night when Damen had suggested Laurent get his faux captain to heel. He could better recall the expression on Damen’s face after Govart was bleeding on the ground and the men were under Laurent’s control. 

Sometimes, it could be that simple.

“I think I can spare some time,” Laurent decided then, making sure his voice carried across the yard. “If any of you think you’re better than Lazar?”

Damianos said his name like a warning. One that he ignored.

“Nikandros,” he continued before any of the men could volunteer. The Kyros had only just arrived and was unsuspecting. “It’s been awhile since we’ve had a bout.”

“Laurent,” said Damianos again.

Unconcerned and determined, Laurent loosened the lacing of his vest. “Do you think that during those battles for my crown, you were the only one swinging a sword?” he asked, voice low again.

“What’s going on?” asked Nikandros, now at Damianos’ side.

“We’re sparring,” said Laurent.

“No, you are not,” said Damianos.

“We can give them a show,” Laurent said to Nikandro, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Nik, you can’t fight him,” said Damianos, exasperated.

“Why not?” asked Laurent. 

Nikandros stayed silent, but he unclipped his cloak. As always, he looked mildly pained as one of his Kings made a decision for him.

With that, Laurent stepped onto the sawdust, pulling his sword from its sheath. Most of the area had been cleared, leaving him and Nikandros ample room for their duel.

Truly, it had been awhile since Laurent had been out with the men or even practiced on his own. Not long enough that he risked losing any skill, but he anticipated the first few exchanges would be below his standards. From there, he and Nikandros should be well matched.

When Nikandros was finally in front of him, delayed by Damianos, he unsheathed his blade with a frown.

“Don’t look so miserable. This is going to be fun,” Laurent said.

“What are you trying to prove?” Nikandros asked as they met in the middle.

One of the men to their left gave a cheer of encouragement, the others following. 

Laurent took one step back, then another. He waited for his opponent to do the same.

“Nothing,” he said, and hefted his sword up.

Laurent attacked first, because he rarely did. A simple sequence, a one-two tap that Nikandros countered easily. There was a familiar thrumming in his veins with the impact.

The next attack, Nikandros deflected, taking a step back.

“Are you going to try?” asked Laurent.

The next deflection was his. 

“Damen says I can’t kill you in front of your men,” Nikandros said when they were close enough, their swords still caught against one another.

“That would be in bad form,” Laurent agreed. “Demoralizing.” He swung his sword. “Treason.” He pressed forward before Nikandros could disengage and unleashed a strike at full strength. It felt good.

By craft, Laurent’s blade was the thinner of the two, but it didn’t put him at a complete disadvantage. He could parry with one hand and strike with two if need be, but Nikandros required two hands on his pommel even this early on.

He held Nikandros at bay for a few paces, and tried a sequence of strikes Damianos favored. As steel scraped against steel, Laurent felt his breath pick up.

“Would it still be treason if you were asking for it?” Nikandros parried Laurent’s next strike and then attacked. He was grinning.

As Laurent swung his blade, preparing for his next move, he grinned as well.

In the end, he found himself on his back because his opponent had deployed a distinctly Veretian move. Staring up at the sky with a sword at his throat, there was still a smile on his face.

The men -- and those who had joined to watch the fight -- were applauding and loudly congratulating Nikandros on a job well done. A particularly enthused spectator whistled. 

“So, you finally figured that out,” Laurent said by way of congratulations.

“I’ve seen you do it enough.” Nikandros removed the sword and offered him a hand.

Back on his feet, Laurent sheathed his blade and then gathered his hair away from his face. His entire backside was covered in dirt, and there was no dignified way to handle it. He did the best that he could as they both caught their breath, waving off offers from other men for another go.

He felt better than he had in days, truly. His blood was rushing from something other than fear, and he felt a flush in his cheeks that didn’t come from unsurety around Damianos. 

“We should switch swords next time,” suggested Nikandros, still grinning. 

“You can’t actually kill me, Kyros,” said Laurent. Then, “After all, you would have the clear advantage.”

“Would I?”

Laurent would never admit to training with an Akielon blade, nor would Nikandros willfully admit that he knew about it. Instead, Laurent gave him a smirk as they approached Damianos still waiting on the sidelines.

“How was that?” asked Laurent when they came to stop in from of him.

With an arched brow, Damianos gave them a short round of applause. At the very least, he looked amused.

“You can have a go with Nikandros if you want, now that he’s tired out.”

Nikandros choked off a laugh. “No, not right now. That was good,” he said to Laurent.

“It was,” Damianos agreed.

As he turned to Laurent and they held one another’s gaze, Laurent told himself not to search for warmth or familiarity.

He had been telling himself that everyday.

“Thank you,” he said.

It was strange and new, this constant need to prove himself worthy.

Even so early in their past, he had not cared what the slave thought of him; on the road, through Acquitart and Ravenel, Laurent had done what he needed to knowing his reputation was in shambles. He would have done anything to stay alive and to win. One didn’t need the respect of the lords or Council to be a good king.

Then, survival had become about mutual crowns and denied feelings. Of keeping Damen far enough away that should anything go wrong, he would still stand a chance in Ios. Even if Laurent would have lost everything, it wouldn’t have mattered if Damen succeeded. They had come back to each other for long enough that he had convinced himself it was enough.

It had all been enough. More than enough. At the Summer Palace outside of Ios, and then chasing around slavers with poor Charls having no idea the part he played in their game. Seeing Damen crowned, followed by the pride and love reflected back in his eyes when Laurent stood before him for his coronation.

Laurent had never needed to prove himself worthy of Damen and to be doing so now had him so far out of his depth that he loathed it. Even now, as he listened to Nikandros and Damianos reminisce about their weapons training as boys, he craved a look, an acknowledgement of some kind.

If this was anything like Laurent’s previous suitors had felt when he ignored their advances, he sent them his late sympathies. After all, it was much easier to court one who was interested.

Now, with his point proven and nothing to offer in the conversation, Laurent went to take his leave. A warm hand reaching out and taking his made that impossible.

Very carefully, he brought his gaze to Damianos’. “Yes?” he said, steadily.

Damianos was looking at him leisurely. “You aren’t still going riding?”

That was going to be his excuse, even if he only spent five minutes in the stables and then made his way back to the palace.

“May I accompany you?”

“I’m only going to check on the horses.”

“Alright,” said Damianos, easily.

Out of the corner of his eye, Laurent could see Nikandros looking between the two of them with a pleasant expression and a quirked brow. When one of the soldiers called from him, he slinked away.

“You want to come with me?” Laurent asked, just to be sure. He felt Damianos interlace their fingers together.

“Yes,” said Damianos.

Laurent, his blood rushing again, led the way.

+

It was a rare afternoon when Laurent didn’t have something to review or someone to see. In an attempt to take advantage of that, he had tried to settle in the library and find a new story or an old favorite to enjoy again. It had been to no avail. Something about the air in the vast room had been stifling, the near silence not being the comfort he had been after. It hadn’t taken long for him to return to his chambers and take to the balcony.

In his brocade, the cool breeze was enjoyable, but only just. The royal gardens below held plants in varying shades of brown and death. It had been nearly a month since his return from Fortaine -- twenty-one days, by his count -- and the townspeople had yet to have their first snowstorm.

Laurent wondered if the children in town woke each morning and looked excitedly out their windows as he had in Arles when winter was near. Delfeur was the only province he knew to have a festival for it, but the first snowfall was celebrated all across the kingdom. In Arles, it had only meant a banquet for the Court, and a much later bedtime than usual when he was a child.

Now, the first snowfall would only mark the passage of time, of more days where Damianos had no recollection of their life together. Of the first time he had seen snow, his unmasked wonderment, and how quickly that had changed to him remarking that it was far too cold to be outside.

It was illogical to ask the snow to wait. As if each day that passed before it fell wouldn’t count. Still, a small part inside of Laurent whispered the plea anyway.

It was the slamming of the door that brought him back to the present. His cheeks felt cold enough that he knew time had passed, and that they would be pink. He took a moment to uncurl his hands from fists, tingling fingers protesting.

He turned to see Damianos coming towards him.

“Where have you been?” It was more of an accusation than a question.

Laurent’s first thought was that something horrible had happened, but without guards following Damianos, that was unlikely. Still, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Tell me about Kastor’s death,” Damianos demanded. He moved like the distance between the two of them was a battlefield.

“What?” Laurent said, pushing himself away from the balustrade to stand up straight.

“You said you wouldn’t lie to me. That I could ask you anything about the past. Then tell me how my brother died.”

“Not when you’re like this.”

“You do not get to decide when I know things,” said Damianos. A vein pulsed on his forehead, his fists clenched. He seemed to have forced himself to unclench his jaw, and lower his shoulders. To give a semblance of calm.

“I am not lying,” said Laurent, evenly. “I am concerned you will not like my answer.”

“And so?”

“What’s wrong?” he asked again, moving them inside and closing the balcony doors.

“Was my brother in the throne room with your uncle in Ios -- yes or no?”

The question was very specific.

“Yes.”

Damianos tore his gaze away with a curse and took a moment.

“I -- last night I had a dream,” he said, pausing again. “There was no sense to it. You were on trial for something, like in Arles after -- “ He broke off his words and shook his head. “But we were in Ios. Your uncle had my father’s throne room at his command. Kastor was beside him.”

Laurent nodded when Damianos looked to him for confirmation.

“Were they working together?”

“Yes.”

“Did they kill my father? Did Kastor --”

“It was poison.”

“Did you know?” asked Damianos. Then, before Laurent could answer: “No. I’m sure you did. It doesn’t matter. You had your uncle beheaded. How did Kastor die?”

“What else happened in the dream?” he asked. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t even think for one moment what could be happening --

“You were unchained, and then I was. Everything was chaos. But you looked at me like…. ” Damianos trailed off, searching Laurent’s gaze for something that he thought should be there. 

Laurent swallowed. He remembered how he had looked at Damen.

“We won. You weren’t supposed to be there at all,” he told Damen. “Kastor tried to escape, and you went after him. We had just won everything and I found you bleeding on the floor from his blade.”

“Laurent.”

Damianos hadn’t said his name like that in too long.

“I killed him, because he was going to kill you,” Laurent said, earnestly. When Damianos didn’t turn away like expected, he continued. “I didn’t think you would show up. I only went with my uncle so you could get away.” _I was ready to die for you,_ he added to himself. _You wouldn’t let me._

Damianos took a step closer to him, and then another. The familiarity Laurent had been searching for every day shown in brown eyes, and there was a pain now in his chest.

“I didn’t want you to be alone. In the dream I -- I knew that.” Damianos’ voice was soft, surprisingly intimate.

“It was reckless.”

Damianos reached out and took Laurent’s left hand gently. The touch was unexpected as his fingers slid along Laurent’s skin, stopping at the wrist-cuff. He traced the engraving of the Akielon word for ‘beloved.’

“Damen -- ”

“You never call me that,” said Damianos. “In Arles, they told you my name was Damen. Surely… ” He paused and shook his head again. “After so long, you can’t be stuck on formalities.”

“I have always used both your names,” Laurent said. He tried to hold his ground, to keep his head. This was so much more than the visit to the stables the other week when he had told his hopeful heart to calm down over and over again.

“Is one reserved for when I have upset you?” A small smile. A brightness in Damianos’ eyes.

Before Laurent could respond, he heard the chamber door opening and closing again, followed by quick footsteps.

“Your Majesty, there’s a letter here from the Vaskian delegation and something from Lady Vannes -- Oh!” The servant, with what Laurent assumed was his correspondence for the day, stopped in the middle of the room. “Apologies, my Kings, I didn’t mean to interrupt. King Laurent asked to be notified when he received something from either -- ”

“On my desk, Altes,” Laurent said, cutting off the anxious babbling.

It wasn’t that long ago that the servants would always find him and Damianos close -- closer than this. It shouldn’t have been such a shock.

The servant gave a short, awkward bow and continued to the study.

When he was out of sight, Damianos let go of Laurent and stepped back.

“Important letters?” he asked.

It was clear that whatever had been between a minute ago was gone, even if neither of them felt like it was.

“No. Well, yes,” Laurent said. He felt unsteady. “I’m hoping the Vaskians have made a decision on their visit.”

“You’re hoping they’ll reschedule.”

“It’s just not the best time.”

“Is that because of my bastards running around?” asked Damianos, head tilting to one side as he examined Laurent. A wayward curl fell over his forehead. He looked in the direction Altes had gone, and then added quietly: “Nikandros told me. But I agree. They shouldn’t come.”

“It’s not about the children,” said Laurent. They had never been a concern. Maybe years down the road, when they could be used for political gain.

“I know how Vaskians are.”

“If only their jewelry didn’t sell so well,” Laurent mused dryly.

Damianos let out a small laugh. “Yes, the demand for jewels is very high here,” he agreed, his tone matching Laurent’s.

“And they helped us with my uncle’s raiders. In the hills.”

“Yes of course,” said Damianos. Though, of course, he didn’t remember that either. With that, he took a step back. “I’ll leave you to your letters.”

Laurent watched him turn and go, fighting against the need to keep Damianos close. If he stayed, it would have only been a matter of time before Laurent would break and ask what else Damianos has seen in his dreams, analyzing each foggy memory and hoping to find shreds of their past. Hoping he could force Damianos to remember _more._

_Be happy, you fool,_ Laurent chastised himself as the door closed. _He remembered something._ He circled his cuffed wrist where he could still feel a phantom of Damianos’ touch.

He breathed.

And that was enough for that.

“Altes?” he called.

“Yes, Your Majesty?” came the tentative and overly-formal reply.

“You can come out now.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The young Akielon rushed back into the antechamber, eyes downcast with embarrassment that Laurent couldn’t understand.

“Could you send for some wine as well?” said Laurent.

“There’s a jug on your desk, Sire. I will have another sent,” said Altes with a jerky bow, and then he too was gone.

Laurent took his time settling down at his desk, pouring himself some wine and having few sips before picking up the letters. He found himself a few moments later on his feet with Vannes’ letter in hand.

He opened his chamber door just enough to see the guards on either side.

“Alert the Council that we will meet in one hour,” he ordered.

After closing the door, he went to the adjoining door to Damianos’ chambers.

“Damianos,” he called, coming into the empty antechamber. He waited a moment. “Are you here?”

“Laurent?” He heard as Damianos came from the bedchamber, hair damp and freshly dressed in a Veretian tunic and trousers that better reflected the weather than his chiton from before.

“I have called for the Council. We will meet in an hour.”

If Damianos noticed his frantic tone, he ignored it. “The Vaskians are coming, then?”

“What?” Laurent hadn’t opened that letter yet. “It doesn’t matter. There is an ongoing situation at the northern border of Vere,” he strode forward and held out Vannes’ letter. “Here.”

Damianos read it quickly, and frowned. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

“It was under control.”

“And now?”

A representative from Arles had gone to the Forest Folk as requested to hear both sides of whatever petty grievances they had with one another. Whatever the misunderstanding, it had been ironed out quickly and everything had calmed down, according to Vannes’ previous letter. Laurent had taken the pinch of luck, and reviewed her forthcoming letters with little concern.

But too quickly, the delicate peace between the two clans had turned into threats of war, and again there was a request for Vere’s support. From both clans. Both were also wondering why the King of Vere did not think these disputes were worth his time. Vere and the Northern Forests had always come to the other’s aid before Laurent’s father had died. Surely the new king had not forgotten his northern allies.

“There are not small villages of three or four dozen people. If the Feuilles and Venteux clans fight each other, easily that many men will die. More if they raid,” Laurent explained. 

Damianos, with his eyes back on the letter, shook his head and frowned. “Surely it won’t come to that. Have we visited the Northern Forests recently?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“No.”

“So, they are threatening an alliance they have no experience with, in hopes that you solve their disputes?” Damianos was unimpressed.

“We cannot have war on our borders,” said Laurent. “And not one that involves overly large wolves!”

“Wolves? The north doesn’t have wolves.”

“You know very well that it _does!_ ”

“No, I do not!”

Laurent did not let himself react.

Damen had loved hearing the old Veretian lore about oversized wolves that roamed the land, and the lords that would keep them by their sides. Laurent had listed his ancestors and the names they had for the wolves, recalling glorious battles from books and songs. When Laurent was done and their dinner had long since grown cold, Damen had given a sheepish smile. Akielon royalty never had anything like that, he had explained forlornly. There had only ever been stories of dragons from across the sea.

“The wolves are not the _point._ The letters are outdated by the time they get here, and a new one arrives the next day. The clans could be a killing each other right now and we wouldn’t know until they were at the gates of Arles! That letter would be outdated, as well.”

Laurent didn’t want to leave Marlas, but he already knew there was no other option. Every fiber of his being protested. And today of all days. When Damianos recalling something.

Laurent’s thoughts frantically whispered, _Last time, he forgot you._

A king was needed at Marlas as often as the other was needed in his country. It was the price they paid for creating the alliance, for moving to the border. And it was a price gladly paid every day. But now, Laurent didn’t know how to leave Damianos as he was settling into his reality, and their moment only twenty minutes ago.

“If I go to Arles, I can stop this.” The words came out like a plea. Laurent swallowed down whatever else he had been about to say, that his heart would beg for. He took a steadying breath as Damianos regarded him in an undistinguishable way. “The Council should agree, but if they do not, we have to convince them.”

“So you’ve kept this from them as well?”

“It was under control,” Laurent said again, each word slipping from between clenched teeth.

“And then it wasn’t,” said Damianos. Then he gave a small sigh. “Of course, you’ve thought it all out. But do not keep these things from me in the future.” He thrust the letter out for Laurent to take. “For this is to work, you have to trust -- ”

“I trust you,” Laurent interrupted roughly, because he would not hear Damianos doubt that. Not after today.

“I want to believe that,” said Damianos, crossing his arms and standing at his full height. “Can I be frank?”

Laurent nodded.

“You say we’re married, and that you love me. I saw in the dream how you looked at me, back then. But here you are, so private and… alone. And I am supposed to blindly trust you and all that you say. What else will you come to me with like this? When you’ve put both our countries in a corner with your secrecy?”

“It was under control,” he said, again.

“Until it wasn’t.”

“I will not apologize for trying to let you recover and not bothering you with every missive we received.”

Damianos scoffed. “Why am I sure that if I were to do the same, you would be enraged?” he asked bitterly. “Go prepare for your meeting.”

“Damen -- ”

“Go. We will make sure the Council agrees with your decision.”

Dismissed, and clearly so, Laurent bowed his head for a moment, and left.

\+ 

  
The grass beneath his mare’s hooves was covered in frost, and the fog made any vantage point useless beyond one-hundred meters. Still, Laurent looked towards the forest where the Feuilles and Venteux commanders were to wait for his arrival.

He had spent seven days calming nerves, stroking egos, keeping alliances in place. He had listened to claims of stolen betrotheds and elk, of missing weapons and supplies. He had heard of the poor girl whose death had caused this all, and given condolences to a family he would never see again.

It would be another seven days before he could sail back to Marlas. The King of Vere would hear his own people’s grievances first, host a hastily thrown together banquet for the lords who had come at word of his arrival, and then take time to visit the neighboring towns.

“At least they’ll be more hospitable this time,” said Guymar, bringing his horse up with Laurent’s.

Laurent hummed a reply.

It wasn’t as difficult to come to Arles now. After his uncle’s supporters had been cleared out and the starburst banners flew freely, the Court had been easy to reshape. Any vile behavior was stomped out, and Vannes kept a tight grip on proprietary while Laurent was away. The castle was warmer, the lingering memories and pain fading more and more as time passed. But as with every visit, Laurent longed for the days to pass quickly so he could return to Marlas and to Damianos.

“What do they serve at banquets, I wonder?” his captain continued. “Their food can’t be that different from ours.”

His men would be waiting on Laurent’s order to proceed to the peace celebrations. As the honored guest, Laurent and his Guard were sure to have the best cuts of meat and freshest cheese the Forest Folk could offer. There would be mulled cider and cakes to fight off the chill that wanted to settle into Laurent’s bones. 

Damen always joked that all the time they spent south would one day make Laurent unaccustomed to the Veretian winters.

As Laurent paused a moment longer, each inhale of cold air was sharp with unfamiliarity. There was nothing to see in the fog.

There were no answers for the King of Vere or his tired heart.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has four art pieces so GET READY FOR CONTENT.

__

_Damianos,_

_I feel the distance between Arles and Marlas every day that I am not on a ship headed home. I know how much you enjoy visiting Ios, but this palace does not hold any of that warmth for me. I hadn’t realized, but maybe I was away from here for too long. Even our rooms are too quiet. I cannot imagine that is the case in Marlas._

_I am sorry that I missed the first snow, and the celebrations. You said that it hadn’t melted away quickly. I hope our people enjoyed it. I hope you found some of that cider you love, as well. I know you will refuse, but if you asked Angeline_ _to brew more, she would, and you could have it more than only once a year._

_I received a letter from Nikandros with yours, stating that he needed to return home. He’s is too loyal by half, and a better friend than either of us deserves more often than not. We will manage without him, though he never seems sure we can._

_You asked for a memory in your last letter. I shouldn’t tell you that I spent the time from reading it until now trying to choose one._

_You invited me to your summer palace when we were in disguise and sleeping on the ground. We had yet to make it to Ios, but I remember agreeing to go with you even though I thought we were about to lose everything. It was a nice fantasy to have._

_You know that we were lucky. But we were also foolish. I like to think we are more responsible monarchs than when we ran to the summer palace so soon after your coronation._

_As I sit here in Arles, I can only imagine how the sun felt against my skin that first day -- how it feels every time we go. You know I arrived before you that first visit, and I stood on that balcony far too long, waiting. I don’t know if I ever told you how anxious I was. We had been apart weeks, but it felt like so much longer. It feels like that now. I miss you, ever so much. I do not like to be away from you, Damianos._

_But you arrived, and you looked at me like I was everything you wanted. Still. I think I looked at you the same way, because that’s how I felt. I hope that you never have a reason to doubt that this is how I always feel._

_That was when you gave me Estelle. I think you knew that mare was the first gift I had received in years. Well, besides my wrist-cuff. Also from you._

_We made love, and lazed in bed. We walked on the beach, and swam. Unsurprisingly, my skin turned pink, and then we hid away again. That’s where I had_ _loukoumades for the first time. Every time the kitchen makes them, I think of the summer palace. I wish they made them more often._

_We had seven days that we shouldn’t have, and it felt like I left part of my heart with you on the dock when you watched me sail away._

_You once told me that we held the center -- I know it was not a ploy, or frivolous words. You are too sincere for that. But, standing on that ship as it left the docks, I decided that I wouldn’t give you up for all the crowns and kingdoms._

_I know...that is not so much a memory of us, but of how I felt around you. I don’t speak of my feelings enough, and since that day I came back from Fortaine, I have done poorly at proving to you my love. Any distance has been for your comfort, but I am wondering now if that has helped at all._

_I cannot pretend to understand what you have been going through since that morning, but all I want is to help. Be patient with me, Damianos. This situation is not so easy for me, either, but I will do better once I am home._

_I plan to sail from Arles, weather permitting, five days from the date on this letter._

_Yours always,_

_Laurent_

_+_

  


Damen stood on the dais outside of Marlas, waiting. He could just make out the returning party in the distance led by the Veretian King.

It no longer felt strange to wear the regalia of his father, to wake up in an unfamiliar palace, or to sit on a dual throne with a man who had been his cruel and frigid master _._

Damen had been raised to take command, to calm and help those around him despite his inner turmoil. A king had a responsibility to his people before himself, even if that king did not recall being crowned.

Ruling was not the challenge.

The kingdoms were at peace, the reports showed little food shortages that were already being addressed, and slavery had mostly been eradicated. Until the accident, it seemed that Damen had been happier than he had ever imagined.

“He isn’t going to like this.” The comment was made from behind by an indistinguishable voice with a hint mirth.

Damen agreed, but General Makedon had arrived too late in the night before to send a messenger with a warning.

Laurent had been away from Marlas for a month.

With him gone, Damen had felt a weight lift off from his shoulders. Expectations he couldn’t begin to measure up to had felt heavier than anything he had known before. He had been waking each morning, hoping for his memories, frustrated when there were none.

It was made worse when Laurent would look at him subtly, so sure Damen wasn’t aware, and there would be something showing in those cold blue eyes -- something that made them warm. And desperate. And then desolate. 

The King of Vere was not as cold as Damen remembered his captor being, and with him gone, Damen had one less person to let down.

At first, that had seemed like a blessing.

Missives from Vere to Marlas took time to be delivered, but they had exchanged the letters out of proprietary; the writings had been between joint-rulers with little else but a complicated past. Then Laurent’s letters had turned vulnerable. Tender.

The morning after Damen received the first letter of its kind -- confused by its contents but flattered -- he had come awake the next morning, and held onto his dreams. With a certainty he had no proof of, he had known one of them to be a memory. It had been the same the next morning.

In his last letter, Damen had asked Laurent for a memory -- any memory of them together. He had not put what his dreams had shown him into words, selfishly wanting something from the other man first. The letter Damen had received in response, and the honesty within Laurent’s words, a pain Damen had not expected, still held him captive. 

Before him now, the sun reflected off the Golden King’s armor and hair as he road to the base of the dais, turning him into a beacon, almost like the starburst itself.

_“He cares very deeply for you, Brother,”_ Nikandros had said before his departure, not for the first time. It had taken time for acceptance, time for reconciliation of the past to be put back where it belonged. _“Do not judge him for the boy he was at twenty. He would protect you from anything. Even himself.”_

As much as four years had surely changed Damen, he only need to look at Laurent to see the differences, but it was more than that. It was in the cordigal way he spoke when they were both required for some kingly duty. It was the guarded blue of his eyes that slipped with a small smile or a murmur Damen couldn’t catch. It was the ever-present dark circles beneath those eyes that said more of his stresses than any words.

As Laurent swung from his horse and marched towards Damen, he could see those circles were worse than before.

_“_ Why are you out here? What happened?” said Laurent, now in front of him. His voice held barely restrained apprehension as he reached out and then stopped. His hand fell back to his side. 

“Do I not always welcome you back?” Damen asked, attempting playfulness and a small smile more for the bannermen and members of the Court behind them.

In an instant, the glimmer of brightness drain from Laurent’s eyes, his face becoming a mask. The other man held up his ungloved hand for the proper greeting Damen knew to expect.

Laurent’s grip when they they clasped hands was weak.

“How were the Northern Forests?” said Damen. 

“They make a pigeon pie I wish to never have again. But they were grateful for our assistance,” said Laurent. He was cordial. Proper.

Standing before courtiers after a long journey would not be the time for Laurent to do more than he was. Their affections had always been private, Damen knew. He would not speak of anything but the alliance and travel until they were alone.

“General Makedon arrived last night,” said Damen, as there was no point in delaying the inevitable.

A pause. If it was possible for Laurent to stand even straighter, he did. “That explains the extra garrison’s worth of horses at the stables,” he said.

“I have planned a banquet in his honor tonight. And for your return.” It was simple protocol for any visiting statesman, but standing in front of Laurent and explaining made Damen feel unsure. 

“Did he bring enough griva for all of us? Or will we need pull on our stores?”

A snort came from one of the bannermen. Damen knew he was missing something.

Makedon had spoke of Laurent like a proud uncle boasting over his nephew’s success to a stranger, not to his husband. Damen had found it odd for the northern general, a man of his father’s generation who proudly displayed his kills -- mostly Veretian -- on his belt.

Now, Laurent was not reacting to the news as Damen had anticipated. Other than a raised brow, there wasn’t a hint of displeasure or annoyance at the general’s unexpected visited. 

“Someone get the griva out. Two -- no, three barrels should do for tonight,” Laurent ordered. Then to Damen, he said, “Come. I want out of this armor.”

The men waited for their kings to pass before following, all in the proper silence that was not filled by Laurent or Damen. It didn’t last long. The same bannerman who had muttered under his breath before spoke rather excitedly.

“Your Majesty, did you see any of the wolves?”

Damen saw the corner of Laurent’s mouth quirk up.

“You can ask Jord all about them. He got to pet one,” said Laurent without turning around.

The guard audibly inhaled, but then went quiet. 

Damen followed Laurent to his chambers, not because it had been an order, he told himself, but because they had things to discuss.

He waited, standing off to the side as a servant removed Laurent’s armor. Another quietly offered to take Damen’s gold laurels and cloak, and asked if they would like refreshments. Laurent, answering for them both, said that would be lovely. 

“You are not really going to drink griva, are you?” Damen asked once they were alone. It was an easy place to start, when he doubted anything else would be.

“That’s how I won Makedon over to our side against your brother,” Laurent said in a conversational tone, loosening the laced cuffs of his undershirt. “It took six glasses. You had to help me back to my rooms.”

“Six glasses?”

“To your one.” He said it smugly, one corner of his mouth turning up again.

Damen did not tell Laurent that the excess was nothing to brag about. He had learned by his sixteenth birthday to only drink the amount of the liquor required to satisfy Makedon’s ego, and nothing more.

“I can get away with three or four now, generally. If Makedon’s distracted. I... have a feeling tonight will not be one of those nights,” Laurent continued quietly, his eyes on the furniture before him. When he finally sat, it was with a long sigh.

“If you do not wish to drink, I can’t believe you allow him to coerce you,” Damen finally said. 

Laurent attempted to gesture away his concern. “It’s a bit of a tradition now.”

“Laurent,” said Damen. He felt a mix of concern, which was new but not unexpected, and resignation **.** He moved closer to the other man, but remained standing.

“I’ll be fine, Damianos.”

“You are worn out.”

It was an easy statement of fact. Before him, Laurent was slouched in his seat, dressed in only his underlayers, his boots and stockings discarded so that he was barefoot. His hair was messily pushed away from his face, the long ends falling over one shoulder. The only signs of tension came from his shoulders, but even those were not held as perfectly straight as they had been on the dias.

“I seem to have been spoiled with restful sleep for too long. Now, I am severely lacking in that department. Alas.” Laurent tried to return to his casual tone. Something he did when he wanted to draw the attention away from himself, Damen had realized.

“Griva will not help. You drink too much as it is.”

“I think it’s none of your concern,” Laurent replied, words turning sharp like a knife.

“Isn’t it?” said Damen, eyebrows raised.

He could not explain why he knew that Laurent had no taste for alcohol, but he knew it with certainty. To see him with a goblet in hand in council meetings, the one before him at dinner needing refilled twice and thrice every night, and the evidence of more drinking throughout his rooms, wore on Damen’s nerves.

“Did you drink in Arles too?”

“Leave it. Please.” The command became a request as Laurent looked away, a flush coloring his cheeks.

Damen felt something inside of him involuntarily soften. The man before him looked as he had --

“At Fortaine,” he said aloud.

Laurent went perfectly still, and then slowly turned his head back towards Damen.

“What?” he said.

“At Fortaine. I made you bleed. Your shoulder -- ” Damen spoke as clarity came.

The memory had come to him the other day after a training session with his men, an afternoon that found Damen on his back more than once. When he had gone down the last time, every image had been fragments -- red flags of the Akielon troops following him, a low simmering rage in his gut, Laurent as perfect as ever leaning against a tentpole.

There had not been enough to make sense, and he knew that if he tried too hard, he would only have a headache and no answers.

“What else?” said Laurent, his eyes were bright again as they searched Damen’s, his fatigue pushed back.

“You left Ravenel in my command.” Damen didn’t know where that knowledge had come from, but he knew it was fact in that instant. “Nikandros came and I had to --” take the fort. “Charcy was a distraction. You were captured?” The last statement came out as a question.

Laurent nodded. “But you won. And I escaped.”

There was a phantom of anger as Damen remembered the field of Charcy covered in the Regent’s dead soldiers, neither uncle nor nephew to be found. He had been so sure that Laurent hadn’t left them to die, but he had also known the Prince and his twists and turns and contingency plans. He knew that Laurent would stop at nothing to win against his uncle.

He would never break an oath, unless that had been his plan all along.

“You summoned me, knowing who I was,” said Damen.

“I always knew who you were,” said Laurent.

And then, memory was sudden. A negotiation he hadn’t been prepared for. Laurent’s cold words trying to demean a night in Ravenel --

Damen didn’t remember that night, not yet, but he remembered the feeling of betrayal as Laurent tried to paint that as another part of his grand plan. As Laurent stood in front of him, a prince to a king, and made demands Damen had no choice but to meet should he lose Guion and the proof of Kastor’s treason.

Damen sat down. He forced himself to breathe. 

He remembered Nikandros standing beside him on the outskirts of the Veretian camp, warning him that Laurent was not on his side. Reminding Damen that he could not trust Veretians, and certainly not one bringing an army into Akielos.

Damen remembered having no other choice.

“How….” he began, but then shook his head.

The Prince in Charcy was Laurent as Damen knew him best. Cold. Conniving. Seven steps ahead of everyone, even those on his side. And still, he had been disappointed.

“I know I was awful to you,” said Laurent. “I had missed Charcy, and yet you took the fort against all odds. But you were the Prince-Killer again. You were not my slave. I -- couldn’t keep you close. I wasn’t going to let myself have you.” Much quieter, as if he was talking to himself, he added, “I couldn’t have you.”

Damen heard the words, the slight hitch in Laurent’s voice, and forced another breath.

“You look like you did that day,” he said lowly, accepting pain from the past and a longing that he had tried to ignore.

“What... else have you remembered?” Laurent asked. His breathing was shallow, the thin cotton of his shirt raising and falling quickly.

“Bits and pieces.”

“Such as?”

Before Damen could respond, a servant returned with a tray of meats and cheeses, a carafe of wine and another of water. He watched Laurent become a put-together king for the interruption, back against his chair, elegant chin slightly raised as he thanked the woman and sent her away with a nod. An effortless change. One he completed in reverse before turning to back to Damen.

This had not been the reason he had followed Laurent from the dias, to find himself cut open and bleeding again in front of the man who said so little, and then too much.

“You gave me a memory,” said Damen.

“Yes.” The single word was full of hesitation. “I wish you would remember when we were happy,”

As he had read Laurent’s letter, and then read it again, Damen had imagined him standing on a balcony, eyes as blue as the sea, dressed in a chiton. Then walking in his mother’s gardens, pale fingers trailing against bright flower petals. He had easily pictured Laurent as the young man he was, but happy and in love.

“Do we go to Lentos often?” he asked.

“Every spring.”

A pause. Damen thought that if he said the wrong thing just then, Laurent would shatter.

It was odd, knowing how a person felt, reading the confession penned by their own hand, but then sitting across from them and feeling each wall that stood between them and honesty. 

“Laurent, I -- ”

“We don’t have to do this now,” said Laurent, pushing himself out of his chair and over to a window. Away from Damen.

They did.

“I don’t think distance has done either of us much good,” said Damen. He didn’t mean the month Laurent had spent Arles.

“I’m surprised no one has come looking for you already -- ”

“I do not doubt that you love me.”

Laurent’s mouth, which had been forming more words, snapped closed as his cheeks flushed.

“Is that so hard to hear, after what you wrote in your letters?”

Laurent watched Damen with unsurity. “Have you remembered something else?” he asked.

It was hard to think about waking in his father’s bed in Ios -- his bed -- in the dark of night, a wound in his side from his brother and Laurent laying exhausted beside him in a bloody chiton. The same one, he remembered, from the trial. Damen had been relieved to find Laurent beside him, and reached as far as he could for skin to brush skin. But it had been the beginning of another battle for them both.

Laurent did not need to relive all the ugliness of their past.

“You asked me to have patience. I need the same from you,” said Damen. “Give me time. Let me try to remember us.”

  


+

  


“Exalted! I was disappointed you were not here when I arrived!”

Across the hall from Damen, Makedon stood with his arms spread wide towards the banquet hall doors and Laurent.

The King of Vere had only just arrived on the proper side of lateness. Dressed in a deep red jacket, the embroidery across the chest was the only extravagance other than his handsome face. His boots, while shined to perfection, matched the black silk of his trousers. The simple circlet he wore was half hidden by his hair. It matched the embroidery perfectly. And the cuff, concealed on his left wrist. 

His crown was too heavy, Damen recalled from somewhere. Laurent only wore it for the most traditional ceremonies.

He had once offered it to Damen in jest, and then laughed brightly at the sight when Damen had balanced the ostentatious thing on his head.

The memory of Laurent’s laughter stole Damen’s breath away, and he found himself entranced as as the other king approached Makedon and responded to the greeting. Makedon clapped him on the shoulder. Damen’s eyes widened when Laurent returned the gesture.

“I’ll leave you, Exalted.”

Damen turned back to his forgotten conversation partner, a minor lord of Delfeur, who stalled Damen’s attempt at an apology.

“His Majesty is more interesting than harvest reports. I take no offense. Good evening.”

The rest of the hall that had been enthralled with Laurent’s entrance came alive again. Conversations picked back up as Damen made his way over to the unlikely pair. He had not seen Laurent since leaving his rooms that morning.

“Damianos,” said Laurent by way of greeting. He was smiling, and reaching out to rest his hand on Damen’s forearm.

Damen didn’t know what to make of either of those actions.

“Makedon says he plans to stay for seven days.”

Up close, he could see the intricate lacing at Laurent’s throat, the collar tight against pale skin. His fingers itched with a phantom action he didn’t understand.

“Seven days?” He repeated, looking to the general.

“It was time to get out, see the country,” said Makedon, gesturing with both hands. “My men needed a task, as well. Idle hands or whatever it is the Veretian’s say, right Exalted?” He asked Laurent.

“And so you marched to our palace.”

“It was time for a visit,” said Makedon, good-naturedly.

Too good-naturedly for the general Damen remembered of his youth. This was the war hero with his notched belt. A man with more curses for Veretians than there were types of liquor.

“I’ve had enough travel, myself. I would like to stay in Marlas for a long while,” said Laurent. 

“And what about you, Exalted?” Makedon turned to Damen. “Are the white cliffs of Ios calling your name?”

“Not at the moment,” Damen said, feeling Laurent press the pads of his fingers into his arm.

“That is because you are too in love! Still!” said Makedone. “My wife --” he leaned closer to them, and spoke quietly, which was the regular volume for anyone else, “She told me she’d seen enough of me! She doesn’t like all this peace -- it means I’m home too much.”

“Well, that’s quite a burden to bear,” said Laurent with understanding, shaking his head.

“You wouldn’t send your husband away, would you?”

“That depends.” Laurent looked up to Damen, a glint in blue eyes. “How badly do you snore?”

“You would know,” said Damen. He couldn’t help a small smirk of his own.

Laurent turned back to Makedon. “Well then, for the moment I will allow him to stay.”

“Ha, ha!” said Makedon.

After that, it didn’t take long for the general to suggest they bring out the griva, to which Laurent reasoned it would be best if they ate first. There would be entertainment, as well, Laurent reminded their guest. They could hold off on the liquor until later.

It was a poor excuse, but one that was accepted. At the long table, Makedon was seated across from the both, regaling anyone that would listen -- Laurent, intently -- about the march to Marlas and the changing weather. 

Damen listened, responding with laughter when it was called for, and nods of understanding otherwise. He was more caught up in the memory of the Prince of Vere charming the younger Prince of Patras than the conversation around him. 

“We will go riding in the morning,” said Laurent.

“Because the grounds have changed so much?” said Makedon with a wink. “It would be my pleasure, Exalted.”

Laurent turned, resting a hand over Damen’s. “Damianos can hold the alliance together for an hour or so. Can’t you?”

The staunch dichotomy between the man Damen knew from Arles and the man he was starting to know from his memories was something he couldn’t so easily resolved. Adding Laurent as the man he was now, only served to complicate the equation.

Damen reached for glass. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll find something to do,” he said.

Laurent looked at him with a gentle gaze and a small smile.

“So what exactly were you doing in Arles, Exalted?” said Makedon, pulling Laurent’s gaze back to him.

“Well. Have you ever heard the tales of Veretian wolves?”

  


+

  


A pair of long and pale fingers suddenly came down on the edge of Damen’s paper, attempting to disrupt his attention.

He had done his best to ignore Laurent’s arrival through their adjoining door and his apparent mood, keeping his eyes focused on the grain reports before him and continuing to retain very little of the information they provided.

Laurent had only allowed this negligence for two page-turns.

“We have a bit of a situation,” he said, haughtily.

Damen eye’s focused on the words ‘export ratio’ as he said, “How was your ride with Makedon?”

Laurent snorted. _“Makedon,”_ he said with emphasis, “is more perceptive than he should be.”

At that, Damen sat back with a quiet sigh. He would have blamed Laurent’s sourness on too much liquor the night before, but Damen had watched surreptitiously as he had held himself to one glass of wine and then one of griva.

“Is that so?” said Damen, thinking a successful general, even an Akielon one, would hold higher esteem than that in Laurent’s opinion.

“He’s loyal to you because he was loyal to your father. He tolerates me --”

Damen raised his brows. “Tolerates?”

It was Laurent’s turn to sigh as he looked up at the ceiling. His fingers strained against the paper beneath them. “He likes me because I played his game years ago and beat him. And I keep drinking with him. I’m glad he’s an ally in the provence.” A pause. “And I rather like when he favors me over you.”

Damen chose not favor that addition with a remark of his own. “And so?” he said instead. 

“He asked me if he needed to -- his words were _‘set Exalted straight’_ on your _‘duties as a husband,’_ ” Laurent said through clenched teeth.

Of all the things Damen had expected, that hadn’t even been in the realm of possibilities. He’d truly thought the Vaskian delegation had sent yet another letter stating they were indeed coming after all.

This was much better.

He had to fight back a laugh, muffling it in a cough.

The idea of Makedon giving Laurent fatherly advice, of him offering to approach his king and then help Damen right a wrong, was fantastic and far-fetched. To do so, Makedon would have to completely break protocol, and it would be awfully embarrassing for all parties. Damen couldn’t hold back a small smile as he now imagined Laurent’s face when Makedon had been making his offer.

Laurent glared. “This is not a joke.” he said, fingers tensing on top of the paper before pushing away from the desk. 

Damen had no response.

He had no memory of a time when Laurent hadn’t been in full control of those around him. To now see him pacing the room, blue eyes wide with thought, self-control failing him with every step, was unimaginable. This was a side of himself that Laurent must have kept quite hidden under his layers and laces.

“I _knew_ this was going to happen. I knew it. How we’ve fooled the Court -- if we even have -- is beyond me when that middle-aged, perpetually drunk barbarian…and I was even trying...” Laurent trailed off, his fist clenching unconsciously at his side.

“You cannot try to control everyone’s perception of you. Or of our relationship,” Damen tried to reason.

“Yes, I can.”

“Makedon is one man.”

“Without him, our army would have been half the size against my uncle.”

“And now we have two country’s worth of men,” Damen held out his hands as if to encompass the size of their combined forces. “Are you truly worried about Makedon’s opinion? Surely you have ways to silence him for good.”

Laurent stopped mid step at that, and swivelled to face Damen. His mouth opened and then closed as if he couldn’t find the words to say. Damen waited.

“We don’t… we’re not those kinds of kings, Damianos,” Laurent said, brows furrowed. “You don’t believe -- Makedon is well meaning. I know that. But others won’t be. They are what I’m worried about. And I don’t… know what to do.” The admission was quiet, said with eyes averted.

“You are not alone in all of this, you know.”

Laurent gave a sad, breathless sort of laugh. “Aren’t I?” 

Damen ran a hand over his face. He couldn’t decide if it would be worth it to get through to Laurent, to help calm him, or not. There was some part of him felt like he had to try, though. That Laurent would listen to him.

“Laurent, I am right here.”

“But you’re not.”

Three words, but the weight in them felt insurmountable and Damen could feel everything Laurent had denied himself like a weight on his chest. 

His dedication for their kingdoms, and his reserved but unyielding concern for Damen. The stolen looks from the corner of his eyes, the request that Damen stay in his chambers to heal those first days. The effort it must have taken for Laurent to keep himself away. Every unsaid word he had seen in Laurent’s eyes that day he had to leave for Arles. And then the sadness that had been prominent in his letters.

_Be patient with me,_ Laurent had written.

He stood before Damen, worried and unguarded, and young. Twenty-four, and ruling a kingdom. Married, but to a man that only felt echoes of his love.

But still, Laurent had come to him. 

After a time, Damen stood and came to lean against the sette. It was closer to Laurent, but there remained enough space between them for pacing.

Arms crossed over his chest, he cleared his throat. “What would I do normally, when you came to me like this?” he asked.

Laurent, who had been focused on a point across the room, turned. He gave Damen a questioning look.

“When you’re upset,” said Damen.

“Nothing. You listen, and if I don’t have a plan by the end of my rant, you do.” Laurent cleared his throat. “Jord thinks you’re most of my impulse control.”

“So, I have the rational ideas.”

“My ideas are perfectly rational. They’re just more fun. And sometimes, they involve feathered hats.”

As Laurent hinted at a smile, Damen hoped he would remember the story behind that soon. But until then… “Do you have a plan now?”

Laurent sighed and shook his head. “Our alliance would be strong whether we were together or not, but not everyone believes that. Our commitment to one another is a reflection of our strength. According to some, Vere and Akielos are only formidable because of our love for one another.”

In all the time that Laurent had been in Arles, Damen hadn’t heard anything that would have given such worry any credence. Not even a whisper. Had there been cause for concern, Nikandros or one of the council members would have said something, surely.

“I think it shouldn’t concern anyone who a king takes to his bed,” said Damen.

“I am aware of your opinion. Rest assured, that has not changed. But you wear your heart on your sleeve, and I am not much better when it comes to you. Even now.” Laurent came next to Damen, slumping against the furniture.

“Laurent,” Damen said, lowly.

“No, that’s not the point. I won’t let anything happen to you, or Akielos. Whether you remember or not.”

Damen could feel the weight on his chest growing heavier. He didn’t know how Laurent had managed to bear it for so long.

“And if I told you to wait for the threat to present itself?” he asked. Laurent minutely shook his head. “I didn’t think so,” Damen said flatly. That wasn’t the Veretian way.

Quiet came again. He didn’t know what to suggest, and Laurent was caught in his own thoughts. With his arms crossed, the other man tapped a nonsensical rhythm on his elbow, gaze turned inward.

Damen couldn’t help but watch him.

Laurent’s allure wasn’t something Damen had ever been able to ignore. He remembered his thoughts on that first day in Vere, and his actions in the bath that lead to the whipping post. Laced into his lies in Arles or sitting like a statue on his throne and trying to keep Damen at a distance, Laurent was beautiful. But he was also more.

Laurent was not a cold man; Damen knew that now. He was not cruel. He was a benevolent king with schemes in motion and courtesy for those around him. With servants, guards, commoners, Laurent repaid loyalty and kindness with the same. The only person whom Laurent had yet to be freely himself with had been Damen.

“Can you pretend to be in love with me?” The question was unexpected, and pulled Damen from his thoughts.

Laurent still slumped against the sette beside him, eyes averted. His voice was hoarse. “I cannot decide if you will be more mad about this now or later, if you remember. You hate when we become a show.”

Damen was not sure he understood. Moreso, he hoped he didn’t. The idea taking shape was sly, and false, true to the Veretian form. 

“If we give them something -- anything,” Laurent continued, he sounded desperate. 

Damen understood too well.

He came to stand before Laurent, close enough to see blown pupils, the color high on pale cheeks. The remaining inches between them felt like a nuisance, but a necessity all the same.

“Should I kiss you before the Court this evening?” he asked. “If that is what you’re asking, you will need to be clear.”

“Damen.” His small name was a pained whisper, only made worse when he cupped Laurent’s chin and blue eyes fluttered closed.

“I think you would not ask me, if I had my memories. You would kiss me before the Council or in the public gardens without a word. I wouldn’t even know of the gossip. Makedon’s words wouldn’t have bothered you at all.”

He didn’t know how to explain that he knew how he had felt for Laurent, before. That there were traces of it from somewhere deep inside of him now and again.

Laurent inhaled sharply. He still hadn’t pulled away. “Don’t --” he took another breath, opening his eyes, “toy with me like this.”

“I do not toy with you. You held my hand last night and I couldn’t breathe,” Damen admitted. He waited for Laurent’s eyes to meet his, and then wouldn’t let him look away. “Why wouldn’t I want your affections? For the whole Court to know I am yours?”

Laurent made another pained noise, and then kissed him.

Damen was consumed. His hands fell to hips, gripping and pulling Laurent closer. He couldn’t match the desperation, the neediness, but his own desire flamed. It felt right, to have Laurent in his arms. But it also felt brand new.

One kissed turned into two, but Laurent was too tense. The arms wrapped around Damen’s neck felt like a vice. It was as if Laurent had something to prove, to himself, to Damen, with each bruising press of lips.

“Please,” whispered Laurent, the word ghosting across Damen’s lips.

Laurent deserved to be kissed by someone who remembered him.

“Damen.” Another whisper, and Laurent pressed his lips back to Damen’s. Gently.

“You don’t want this,” he said. It took everything in him to pull back, but he wanted to kiss Laurent knowing that he loved him.

“Don’t I?”

Damen closed his eyes and inhaled. Slowly, he removed Laurent’s hands from the back of his neck and took a step away. He was met with a steel blue gaze that clashed with kiss-swollen lips and colored cheeks.

“You do not get to tell me what I want,” Laurent growled, but he didn’t move closer.

Damen didn’t say it, because he wanted to live, but he disagreed.

Neither of them had caught their breath, which felt more ridiculous the longer Laurent glared and Damen stood his ground.

“I will kiss you tonight for the whole palace to see,” said Laurent, “because that is what I want to do. We will be _besotted_ with one another, because that’s what we want them to see.”

“Fine,” said Damen.

Laurent took the word like a slap across the face, turning away from Damen for a moment. When he looked back, there were too many emotions in his eyes to make sense of. His breath had still yet to calm.

“The first time we kissed, we had survived a kidnapping, fought in a battle, and taken a fort,” said Laurent. 

Damen made the effort to be still, and hold his gaze.

“I had made you a promise -- if you captained the men to victory at Ravenel, you would have your freedom. I would let you ride across the border to Akielos, and we would pretend that whatever was between us had been nothing. But I couldn’t let it be that simple.

“You had abandoned the victory feast, and my obvious attempts at flirtation.” Somehow, Laurent’s cheeks managed to darken at that admission. “I followed you up to the battlements. And you tried to turn me down -- gently. Poorly.”

Damen breathed because he could see Ravenel as it was on Akielon maps, and talked about in military meetings. That fort was impregnable. Like the Prince of Vere’s heart. To take it would require more than Akielos had ever possessed, and to claim it under one’s flag would be the accomplishment of a lifetime.

“You kissed me up there, the both of us planning for you to leave, and I felt like I was coming apart. I knew who you were, and I still wanted you -- _desperately.”_ Laurent broke off, and gave a dry laugh. It sounded more like a sob. “I had you sent to my rooms that night. Purposefully. When I say that you don’t get to tell me what I want, Damianos, it is because I already know.”

+

That night, Laurent kissed Damen in the gardens for all of their guests to see. Then, he disappeared.

It was hours later when Damen retired and fell into bed. All night, he dreamed of cream skin against bedsheets and quiet moans.

He had the same dream for the following three nights.

  
  
  
  



	5. Five

At the crest of the hill -- the designated finish line -- Laurent pulled on the reins of Estelle so her gallop slowed to a trot, and then a walk. 

“The Veretian altitude,” said Makedon as horse and rider came to a stop next to Laurent. They hadn’t been far behind, but Laurent took the victory nonetheless. “It is too much for me.”

“General, you have lived in Delfeur all your life.”

“The southern part,” said Makedon, pointing a finger at Laurent as if that made all the difference. He then patted his horse’s neck in appreciation for his effort in the sudden race. 

“We’ll tell everyone you beat me,” said Laurent. 

Makedon balked at the idea. “We can do no such thing. What would that do to your reputation!” 

It was a jest, one that earned a small smile from Laurent. His mind went from the fast ponies of his youth to the exhilaration of the Okton. “Estelle was bred for speed. We shall give her the victory. No one needs to know.”

The Akielon general agreed with a nod, that matter settled, and turned to look back at the palace. Laurent did the same, taking in his home in the early morning light. 

He focused his gaze on the east corner -- where the royal chambers were. He wondered if Damianos was still in his rooms, or if he had gone to train or to see Paschal, or somewhere else. 

Maybe he had gone to Laurent’s chambers, looking for him.

With an abrupt look away, pulling Estelle’s reins so she too faced the opposite direction, Laurent chastised himself for the train of thought. 

“It is a beautiful palace,” mused Makedon, none the wiser, “in the middle of a beautiful country. I am glad she is finally at peace.” It was a sincere statement that Laurent had no reply to. “I hope the next kings of Akielos and Vere will respect that.”

Laurent wished the same, but he had no energy for talks of the future so far beyond he and Damen. Any talk of heirs or successors always led to throbbing headaches; right now, he could not think farther ahead than the next day.

“Will the alliance do anything for the anniversary of the battle?” 

Which battle Makedon meant was not specified, but Laurent didn’t need the clarity. In a fortnight, Laurent would mark ten years spent mourning Auguste.

“No,” said Laurent, risking another glance back at the palace. 

It had been purposefully built on the foundations of the old fort -- of Vere’s greatest defeat and Akielos’ blinding victory. Laurent had wanted the defaced Veretian fort torn down, the bastardized Akielon architecture removed, but the history remembered. He and Damen lived on the grounds where so much pain had been caused, and as the Kings of Vere and Akielos, they dida so peacefully. It was an example for their people, a statement. It was also a memorial.

Laurent allowed himself to wonder, only for a moment, what his brother would have thought of all he had done. Would Auguste have been proud?

“Do you wish to continue on?” he said to Makedon, eyes traveling back to the east wing. 

“Aye. And then tomorrow Exalted-Damianos can ride with you again.”

It was a well-meaning statement, but Laurent took pause to think of those responsibilities and his impulsive decisions, and consequences. 

“It will be too cold for morning rides soon,” he said, nudging Estelle with the heels of his boots and guiding her forward and further away from the palace. 

As it was the general’s last full day at Marlas, it was easy to coax him into taking a longer ride than those they had gone on the before, and into another race or two. When his mare galloped, Laurent let the wind chap his cheeks and focused on that particular sensation above anything else. When his thoughts began to drift, he would challenge Makedon and his steed again. 

The sun was high and the morning frost had melted away by the time they returned to the stables. 

Across the yard, Laurent could see Damianos, dressed for the change in the season in full Veretian garb, leading Makedon’s men, all in chitons, through a series of drills. 

“We will drink tonight,” Makedon said, already handing his horse off to a stable-boy. 

“Yes,” said Laurent. The feast was sure to lead to headaches across the court.

Damianos called out command in his mother-tongue, thrusting his sword in the air and turning with the men as they followed his order. 

It was a rare occasion that Damen, a reasonable and fair king, was able to step into his past role as a war commander. Here in the yard, he was maybe a tenth of the man who had waltzed into Laurent’s tent at Fortaine, splattered with mud and Veretian blood, and thrown down the Regent’s banner. Still, Laurent found himself overwhelmed. 

The Akielon precision and syncrosity was always a sight to behold. 

“We will go glass for glass of the griva. You have not had enough this visit,” said Makedon.

Laurent stared across the yard, unabashedly. “I think you have had enough for us both,” he said. 

He let his mind drift back to those first days when Damen’s identity was no longer a secret and the slave had become a king. Damen had never been able to act like a lowly soldier, let alone a slave for all that he and Laurent pretend that he was. But the dramatic shift in energy, in Damen’s presence as the King of Akielos, Laurent had been taken by surprise.

He had tried for so long to fight the pull to Damen’s side back then. When he had given in, it hadn’t felt like failure. 

“Your Majesty?” Another stable-boy, this one was Geoffrey, looked up at Laurent with a questioning look as he still waited for Estelle’s reins.

A king did not blush when caught watching his husband, but he could not control that reaction. With a cough to clear his throat, Laurent chanced looked back towards Damianos, who had looked away from the men at the perfect moment. Their eyes met. He ignored the sudden feeling in his gut and the goose pimples on his arms.

“I’ll brush her,” he decided as Damianos gave him a searching look. 

“Sir?” said the stable-boy with concern, but he was easily dismissed with a gesture. 

Inside the stables, Laurent breathed in the comforting smells of hay, horse, and tack, and tried to shake off his nervous energy. He let himself be alone.

When that didn’t work, as it hadn’t for three days, he took another breath and let himself feel all of thirteen years old for a moment. He wanted to remember how everything had been when lingering in the dim stables with his and Auguste’s horses had been the only thing on the agenda for the day. 

Laurent let himself miss that ease; he let himself long for it another moment, and then he led Estelle to her stall. He murmured praise and other sweet nonsense while removing her bridle, promising she would get an apple or two when they were done. When the other horses nickered at that, he assured them they wouldn’t be forgotten. 

“Only if there’s enough to go around,” he said softly, rubbing the hair right above Estelle’s nose. “Unless you’re all trying to trick me and you’ve already had your treats for the day.”

Estelle’s ears twitched.

“No, you would never do that,” Laurent said to her. 

Removing his outer jacket first, he then freed Estelle from her tack and started the grooming routine he had learned many years ago. 

“Laurent.”

He had been expecting Damianos to follow him, but still, he flinched. 

“Hello,” Laurent said, keeping to the task at hand. He felt down one of the horse’s legs and then another for anything out of place. 

He listened to the other man’s steps as Damianos made his way across the stable, each horse nickering as he passed. Laurent didn’t have to look to know when he stopped at the stall door. 

Damianos stood, arms crossed with poorly hidden frustration, But he still held onto the same steady presence -- quiet and undemanding -- that he’d had since Laurent had kissed and then locked himself away.

Thinking back to that moment, he felt his cheeks flush. 

The first kiss had been a foolish and impulsive decision, but Laurent had never been the type of man to balk at his choices. Besides, the feeling of Damianos’ lips pressed to his, the ease in which those large hands had found his hips and pulled him close had meant everything. 

He had been away in Arles for too long and had become too vulnerable. Those few moments where Laurent had given over to his desires had felt more right than anything had in months. 

For once, Laurent had allowed himself to hope with all his heart until it hurt. Eyes closed and willing to beg Damianos for more. He had hoped until the sting of rejection settled in him, that like a fairytale, Damen would be healed with a kiss.

But Damianos had pulled away. He had tried to tell Laurent, their lips a hair’s breadth apart, that Laurent didn’t want him. He’d held Laurent’s hands in his, pressing them to his chest like Laurent was something special, something to be cherished -- and still told him no.

Then later, he had kissed Damen in the gardens, even after the other man had whispered  _ ‘You don’t have to do this,’  _ and _ ‘Not like this, Laurent.’ _ The courtesans had been properly shocked, Makedon had laughed, and Laurent had forgotten how to breathe when the kiss had been so gentle. 

“You and Makedon were gone for awhile,” Damianos said now, voice mostly even but for the slight hint of impatience. “Did you have a nice ride?”

Laurent moved to check Estelle’s back legs like he had the front. “Yes. How was training his men?” It took effort to sound unaffected, but he managed. 

“They don’t need training. Your horse - she’s from Kesus.” The last bit was frantic, like Damianos had been waiting to tell him this. 

Maybe he had. He wouldn’t have known it before. 

“You told me,” said Laurent. He put down Estelle’s hoof once he was sure nothing was stuck in it and repeated the process with the next. 

“There’s a family who has sold horses to the kings and queens for over four hundred years.”

Laurent knew this as well. He pushed up from his crouched position, brushing his hands off of his thighs. 

“You had gone back to Arles when they arrived with two dozen of their best --” Damianos stopped himself with a tired sigh. “I didn’t come to talk about horses,” he admitted.

“No.” Laurent petted Estelle’s nose again and she nuzzled into his hand. The stable-boy would need to be called back to finish the job, but not until he and Damianos were done. 

“Are you going to look at me if I try to speak with you? Or is this going to be a waste of time for the both of us?”

Laurent turned. He had been expecting this since kissing Damianos -- some sort of revelation, a confrontation -- and for once, he had not gone through the conversation in his mind. He truly hadn’t planned what he would say, what biting remarks would send his husband away, or any kind reassurances he might offer.It felt almost freeing. But, the sudden weariness that came and rested on his shoulders was a surprise. 

It hadn’t been easy as a prince, to be vulnerable to his brother’s killer and frightened of what had been growing between them. To have Nicaise’s head in a bag the next day and Damen on the steps when he should have been gone. And then, to march out the day after that on what would be exhausting and tireless journey for his crown and his heart. 

This time, Laurent felt like he wouldn’t be able to win no matter how hard he tried. 

“Are you going to keep acting like you’re an unaffected barbarian?” he asked, ignoring the way his shoulders slumped as he met Damianos’ gaze. Even to his own ears, his words held too much emotion and the pet-name sounded too sweet. 

For all of Damen’s frustration, he had been nothing but a steady presence, quiet and undemanding, when the two kings had been together in the past few days. As if nothing important had come to pass between them. 

It had only been a matter of time. 

“So, you still get to decide when things are important enough to discuss? For me to know?” Damianos arched a brow. 

Laurent stepped away from Estelle and over to the stall door. “I am done apologizing for trying to protect you,” he said. 

“Why are you so sure there must be a fight for us to be in love?” Damianos asked, and then continued when Laurent had no answer. “If there’s not an enemy, do we have to fight between ourselves? Neither of us will win this way. You must know that.”

Laurent held his ground like he held their past. Right then, he wasn’t sure if it was as a weapon or a shield. 

“Do you think I am a brutish idiot?” 

“You are the smartest man I know,” Laurent said decisively, “This isn’t about that. We are not debating your military prowess or the cost of imported grains. I have lost enough sleep in two months trying to imagine what you might say at every turn. I am tired of always guessing. Either tell me what you want or go.”

Damianos looked to the sky and then back to Laurent with something new -- no, something old, Laurent realized -- in his eyes. “Just tell me what you want me to say so we can move past this.”

“I want you to say that you remember.” 

The words were hoarse. He had told himself he would never admit that outloud, and he had held himself to that for so long. Now, they hung in the space and the silence between him and Damianos. It felt stifling, but it felt so good. 

“I am  _ tired, _ Damen,” Laurent finally admitted, voice cracking like it had when he had begged Auguste not to go. His brother who had been dead for nearly ten years, and Damen, whom had been his for only four years and now didn’t want his affections. 

“I lost my brother and there was nothing I could do, and I have been trying to keep you but I don’t --” Laurent broke off to breathe, to find his next words, but Damianos was in front of him, and then cupping his cheeks.

Damen kissed like he made love, and Laurent was lost to it instantly. 

He had been touch-starved for too long, and the headiness of Damen’s attention, the feel of skin under Laurent’s fingers had him trembling. He reached up and grasped desperately at Damen’s wrists, his one hand finding the cuff and a finger tracing over the letters that spelled: Bien-aim é.

He made a weak, helpless sound. 

Laurent was clinging to Damen, letting the kiss turn into another as he poured everything he had, all the truth and their past, all the love he was capable of, into it. And Damen held him tighter, and moved slow and deliberate. 

When they finally broke apart, breathing was difficult. Laurent refused to open his eyes. His forehead rested against Damen’s and he felt the other’s shaky breath across his cheek.

_ Just a little longer, _ Laurent whispered to himself. Damen’s thumb caressed the skin under his eye.  _ Let him pull away first. _

Damen didn’t pull away, even as their breath calmed and fell in tandem. That made the ache in Laurent’s chest throb, but gently. This was everything he had wanted when he had been desperately alone in Arles, writing a letter he wasn’t sure would ever be read. 

“You _have_ me,” said Damen, voice low and serious. “Memory or not. But you seem determined to push me away at every turn. You cannot write me a letter like you did, and then kiss me for some political game. I know enough of myself to know I wouldn’t only take parts of you like that.”

Laurent opened his eyes, tension pulling his every muscle taunt again. His instinct was to pull away, to guard himself from whatever Damen was about to say next. 

Damen didn’t let him go.

“I want to love you the way you deserve. Not with these half-memories or based on what others tell me.” Deep brown eyes were open and honest. “Do you think I don’t want you? I  _ remember  _ loving you - I remember some of those moments. I want to remember them all. I told you this when you came home. That’s why I pulled away.”

_ Home. _ The word had Laurent shuddering again. He wanted to look away from Damen, to collect a shred of his cool exterior. But in Arles, there hadn’t been anything separating his heart from the page, no fear that honesty would push Damianos further away. 

Laurent realized that he had been trying to protect them both from each other for far too long. 

“You are very impatient,” said Damen, and he smiled just a little. “And it’s astounding how quickly you can rile my temper. But that does not mean I am done with you as soon as I am angry, or if I don’t understand. I promise that I want you close.”

“I am sorry,” Laurent said, truthfully, because he didn’t know how to say the rest. 

Damen ran both his thumbs along Laurent’s cheeks. “You left before breakfast was served,” he said and took a step back, threading their fingers of one hand together. “Will you let me find you something to eat?”

Laurent nodded, his breath still shaky, and let himself be pulled towards the stable door. He told himself that he could have this with Damianos -- this new version of their love.

+

  
  


Standing on the dais the next morning, Laurent couldn’t help but feel a burgeoning sense of relief as he and Damianos watched Makedon and his men ride away.

The night before had been filled with griva, as expected, and Laurent had drank a lot of it, as promised. And then, when he knew he should have been done, there’d been one more glass accompanied by the boisterous cheers of Makedon. 

Damianos had spent most of the celebrations across the hall, glaring surreptitiously and speaking to the guests who hadn’t been loudly chanting in Akielon each time another round of liquor was poured. But when Laurent had been ready to stumble to bed, he had been at his side with a rueful smile and a shake of his head.

“This feels vaguely familiar,” Damianos had said while Laurent had been trying to get the hallways to stop spinning. 

“You will not let me get sick in the hall,” Laurent had told him. 

And then it had all gone black.

There was a precedence set by long dead men of how long the Kings should watch a party depart. Laurent felt the minutes tick by with the increased pounding of his head and a wish for death, or sleep. 

When Makedon was no longer distinguishable at the head of his troops, he sighed quietly in relief.

“And that’s enough of that.” He turned on his heel and began walking away from the bright light of the sun. And away from all the people. 

If only it would be excusable for a king to hide in his bed and send all requests to the other to handle. But Damianos, who was very poorly hiding his smirk as they walked through the palace, wouldn’t allow for it even if asked. Laurent knew better than to make the request. It would only cause Damianos’ smirk to widen and his booming laugh to sound, and then Laurent’s head would hurt more. 

“Would you like to have breakfast?” asked Damianos once they were in his chambers, door closed and the room blessedly quiet. “You need something to settle your stomach sooner rather than later,” he added before Laurent could protest. 

“You would think I knew that by now,” Laurent agreed in as conversational of a tone as he could manage. It took extreme effort. He unfastened his cloak and folded it over the back of the sette, his circlet landing on the cushions with a gentle toss. 

The cat that was resting on the piece of furniture looked up with him in distaste. Laurent shooed the creature away.

Damianos took off his regalia with practiced habit. 

“How’s your head?”

Laurent raised one eyebrow.

“Griva can take even the strongest men down,” said Damianos.

“Except Makedon,” said Laurent. He rolled his shoulders and moved his neck from side to side in an attempt to ease his muscles. Nothing changed. 

“Except Makedon,” Damianos agreed with a nod. “Half of his men are miserable. The other half will be tonight. All of our men are.”

“Did you see the guards?” said Laurent, gesturing back towards the door. He reached for the laces at the back of his neck and loosened them just enough so he wasn’t feeling stifled. He then untied the delicate bows at his wrists, pushing up the sleeves of his jacket. 

“They look nearly as pale as you,” said Damianos, smirking again. “Come, I asked the servants for porridge and bread.”

Laurent had been waiting for the other shoe to drop and the displeasure over his drinking to be voiced again. When it didn’t come he said, “Is there fruit?” 

“If you think you can keep it down.” 

They settled into the light meal, Damianos in easy silence, and Laurent attempting to find comfort in it. It was not the same as their private meals before Damen had lost his memory, nor had the meal been yesterday, but the indeterminable edge to most of their interactions, and the hesitance, only lingered in traces. 

Laurent told himself to accept what comfort he could, even as his mind drifted to past mornings after a celebration when neither of them would move from bed, happy to doze and stay close to each other than deal with the world outside of their rooms. 

“Nikandros wrote to say he’s back in Ios,” said Damianos, pulling Laurent back to the present.

“How lucky of him to miss Makedon by a matter of days,” he said dryly, to which Damianos scoffed. “I’m sure Leda is happy, though.”

“He said she’s as big as a shield around the middle.” 

Laurent couldn’t help a little smile as he pushed the leftover porridge with his spoon. “I hope he didn't tell her that.” 

“It would be a true talent, writing to us after death.” Damianos smiled. “I think I remember meeting her,” he said, tilting his head to the side in consideration. “At their wedding?”

Laurent nodded and focused his attention wholly on Damianos, abandoning the porridge. “Yes. We went to Ios for the ceremony. They tried to bring her here beforehand but,” he shook his head, “ the logistics of travel, and the Isthima wedding traditions made that impossible.” 

Those traditions were not something Laurent fully grasped, still. The line of women warriors that Leda came from was seeped in superstitions surrounding engagements and the actual wedding ceremony. When Nikandros had tried to explain it to him, Laurent had ended up nodding with understanding more than he should have.

He could not believe that Akielons had the gall to call Vere’s traditions arduous. At least Laurent had been able to see Damen the night before they wed. 

“She’s quite short for an Isthimian, actually.”

A laugh startled out of Laurent. “Is she?”

“You said she was from the island and I assumed -- the warrior women are all very tall,” said Damianos. 

“Like Talik?”

He nodded. “Leda….” 

“Is decisively short. It’s okay, I think she knows it by now,” said Laurent, feeling himself smile.

Damianos laughed at that, pushing away his plate and leaning back in his chair. “Tell me, now -- am I wrong that she liked you but wouldn’t look at me?” 

“You’re her king.”

“I’m Nik’s best friend.” Damianos said it like it removed his title and royal presence from the equation. 

“You are much larger than her,” Laurent offered as a weak explanation. 

It was true, though; Leda, newly wed and standing before the Kings of Akielos and Vere had been too nervous to meet Damen’s gaze when Nikandros had been introducing them. Her eyes had focused on his lion pin and stayed there. But Laurent, she’d had no problem speaking with. 

“She thinks I’m quite funny,” said Laurent, in case Damianos’ hadn’t remembered that part.

It had been a small point of pride at the time, and entertainment. The journey Nikandros’ face had gone on when Leda had called Laurent “a funny king” had kept Laurent chuckling for days after. 

Damianos raised a brow at that, but his expression had changed into something softer. 

“You wore your hair in a braid that day,” he said. “I liked it. I like it long.”

Laurent felt his cheeks coloring like he was some young maiden, and fought the urge to fidget or smooth his hair down. After running a comb through the long strands earlier, he had done nothing more than tie it back. 

He cleared his throat, “We’ll go to Ios after the baby is born,” he said, changing the subject. 

“Not until the babe has been alive for three months,” Damianos said admently, shaking his head. 

“Alright, that’s fine too.”

“We have to wait to be sure he lives,” Damianos explained. “Villagers won’t even share the child’s name before then, either.”

Laurent decided that there were too many outdated Akielon traditions that he didn’t know about, but there was no harm in that. His headache, while it had subsided with the meal, wouldn’t handle a further explanation of what was surely a holdover from the old empire.

“We’ll wait for Nikandros’ invitation,” he amended, reaching for the teapot to refill his cup. 

Damianos nodded in agreement, but he was distracted, nudging one of the cats away from the table with his foot. Laurent let himself watch his giant husband attempt to dissuade the small creature like the cat was the one actually in charge. 

“Speaking of letters, has Torveld written to you recently?” Damianos asked once the cat had finally moved on, its tail flicking back and forth with displeasure. 

“No. Not since I was in Arles.” Which Laurent admitted to himself was odd. Their correspondence, and Torveld’s subtle requests for aid, had been frequent. There had been a new letter for Patras nearly every week. 

Damianos furrowed his brow. “Should we be worried?”

“Yes, and no.”

“He’s our friend.”

“He’s our ally,” Laurent said, making the distinction. “Who would rather keep his lover a slave than chance being alone.”

Warm brown eyes turned hard.

It would do no good to remind Damianos that he had been held in chains. Laurent couldn’t imagine that thought ever left the other man’s mind, but especially not Damianos as he was now. But he also knew that an argument was only a carefully crafted statement away. 

“He helped you win your thorne. He supported your claim,” said Damianos.

Actually, it had been Torveld’s misplaced affections for Laurent and an awful situation with the Akielon slaves that brought Torveld to Laurent’s aid at Ravenel. It had been Laurent’s work -- his calculations and never-ending schemes Damianos would surely scoff at -- that had secured the Prince of Patras and his troops. 

But the Prince was a good man. Laurent had never ignored that. 

Tentatively, he reached a hand across the table to rest over Damianos’. “Maybe they’re hidden away, and letters would be a risk. Especially across our borders.” 

Damianos sighed. “I hope so,” he said, and turned his hand over so their fingers could lace together.

Laurent let the quiet take them, squeezing Damianos’ hand in his. 

  
  


+

  
  


Of all the rooms in palace, the throne room was the one Laurent thought to be perfectly balanced between Akielon and Veretian design. 

The room was constructed of marble like the rest, but the stone had been carved in simple, straight lines. Pillars like those in Ios ran the length of the room, windows placed across from one another and just so many handspans apart. The draperies in Veretian blue and the Akielon red contrasted in such a way with the white stone that the room- - as Damen liked to describe most things Veretian -- was  _ almost _ garish, but striking.

One could not walk past the large open doors and not have their eyes be drawn to the far end where two thrones sat side by side. They were of equal size and stone -- another symbol of the alliance between the two countries, but also a reflection of the unity of the two kings.

Laurent sat beside Damianos the day following Makedon’s departure, staring at the Patran herald before them and the lengthy scroll in his hands. 

“King Torgeir of Patras, second of his name, the Protector of the Eastern Sea, wishes to inform the Akielon and Veretian crowns of his brother’s death.”

The courtiers present gasped. Whispers started. Laurent did not let himself react. From his peripheral vision, Damianos was as still as a statue.

“Prince Torveld and his household were ambushed outside of the city of Nashpu by what has been reported to be runaway slaves dressed in Akielon clothing and armour. The wagons were ransacked, and the horses stolen. No one from the Prince’s household has been found alive.” 

Laurent thought of Erasmus, kind and demuring, and trained to be both. He could spare the young man no more, as he could see what was coming. 

Their countries once strong alliances with Patras had all but disintegrated once Akielos had made slavery illegal, and then Vere had officially denounced the practice. With the trade outlawed in both countries, and the punishment of death for those who chose to ignore the laws, the most prosperous Patran trade market had dried up instantaneously. 

It had been only the work of Torveld, and a weak wine and spice trade that had kept Torgeir and his lords from sounding war horns back then. 

But now, Torveld was dead. 

“What evidence is there of the murder?” asked Laurent. In his mind, he tallied up the border lords and garrisons from Alier around to Aegina. 

“Prince Torveld’s head was delivered to the fort at Anshan,” the herald said and then paused, almost as if for impact. He couldn’t have been disappointed as another round of gasps went through the throne room. 

“With these action against the Patran Crown, King Torgeir demands that Vere and Akielos surrender all runaway slaves that they have allowed across their borders and offered asylum. The so-called sanctuary houses in their border-towns will provide a roster of their tenants, and will be inspected by Patran officers before the slaves are to be escorted to Bazal.

“Until this compliance is met, all trade between Patras and the Alliance of Vere and Akielos will cease. The Patran border will be closed to all citizens from either nation. Any Patran wishing to re-enter his mother country must provide identification that he is his own man. Those who do not have identification will be held at the border until proof is provided.”

“Our brothers and sisters of Patras share a likeness in appearance with us,” said Damianos, his voice edging with anger. “Are we to be held without identification as freed slaves as well? Your king should know that we will not allow that.”

“The Alliance has taken responsibility for Patran property without permission,” said the herald, eyes drifting down to his parchment again. His words were not as sure as they had been just a moment ago.

“Property?” Laurent repeated, unable to help himself.

“If the slaves are not willingly returned to Patras, King Torgeir will have no choice but to charge Vere and Akielos with thievery.” 

“Your king knows that neither Vere nor Akielos considers people to be property,” said Laurent through clenched teeth

There was a gentle touch to the top of his hand; Damianos’ hand coming to cover his.

“May a former slave purchase their freedom from their owner?” asked Damianos. “What is the cost?”

“The slaves are not to be freed, Your Majesty. They are to be returned to their owners,” said the herald. 

Laurent knew the Keepers of Coin would not have allowed either crown such an expense. A small, illogical part of him wished it were possible. 

“Did your king have anything else to say?” said Damianos. He still maintained the image of unaffected royalty, one Laurent knew he exuded as well. But, his own nerves were shredding with every moment he had to stay seated and wasn’t already sending messengers to the border. 

They would imprison Damen’s people. They would hold them with slaves who had thought they had escaped their lives of servitude. Laurent was no fool to think either would be treated kindly. 

“The punishment for stealing in Patras is death,” said the herald. “Unless another resolution can be reached. King Torgeir asked that I await your reply.” 

The silence lasted half of a moment before the murmurs became exclamations, those of the Court present vocalizing their rage and disbelief. 

Damianos waved a hand in dismissal to the herald, ordering guards to flank him. He and the small party he had arrived with would need to be kept safe, said Damianos, a bite to each of his words. 

Laurent knew the Patrans would be under lock and key. They would be as safe as those Torgeir wanted held at the border.

With another gesture from Damianos, one of their stewards came quickly to announce the departure of the Kings. 

As Damianos led him through empty halls, Laurent tried to work through the logistics in his head -- how many men to send, what generals to call upon, how quickly the messengers could get to the border lords and those already on the customary patrols.

By the time they were at the council room, a servant already sent to gather the members within a quarter of an hour, Laurent could barely wait for the door to close before he turned to Damianos.

“We need to send messengers to the border. Right now. The border lords should be able to hold things in place -- the slaves. They can go into the forts.” 

“We’ll send the messengers out tonight,” said Damianos, evenly. “We’ll send Torgeir's herald in the morning. Give them a head start.” 

The Patran King could already have soldiers stationed at the border, waiting for the herald’s return, so when the refusal came, the Akielon and Veretian forces would be too far away to counteract any move so quickly. 

It would be the kind of plan Laurent would put into place. 

Torgeir was not a stupid man. He knew Laurent and Damianos would refuse his terms. 

“Torgeir is lucky I don’t send his herald back in a body bag with my refusal.” 

Hard brown eyes regarded him sternly. “You will not kill the herald,” said Damianos.

“He came into our palace -- ”

“He was sent by his king,” Damianos corrected, “to deliver a message.”

Laurent scoffed, “You know it as well as I do -- that was a threat of war.” 

“If it gets that far, which it won’t.”

“That doesn’t excuse it,” said Laurent. 

He had told Damianos not too long ago that they could not have war on their borders. The Forest Folk and their wolves were nothing compared to Patras’ forces. 

“Torgeir is grieving,” said Damianos.

“Then he should do so in private, and fight the war inside his country before attacking ours.” 

“Is it so different than when I was presented to you in Arles? You found any way you could to punish me for the past,” said Damianos. “You weren’t thinking logically then. Neither is Torgeir.” 

Laurent froze at the easiness with which Damianos had spoken of his time in Arles as a slave. In the next breath, he felt the past was too close. 

Damianos before him. A country demanding what didn’t belong to them. Soldier’s ready to follow orders. The anniversary of Auguste’s death. 

Laurent took a step back from Damianos, and then another. If he could have left all of his thoughts in the room and closed the door behind them, he would have. Instead, he tried to slow his shallow breathing. 

“We have to write Nikandros. He must gather the kyroi of the south, and have them ready to ride,” he said. It would take those garrisons more time to travel than those in the north, but no more than a fortnight.

“Think for a moment. Torgeir cannot fight a two-front war,” said Damianos. “We have time --” 

“They will enslave our people,” Laurent seethed. “And they will take those we swore to protect -- we gave them a home, Damianos. We cannot allow Patras to waltz in --”

Damianos interrupted him, “Do you think I will not refuse Torgeir’s terms?” he said, voice rising to match Laurent’s. 

“Of course you will. But when the soldier’s are beating down the doors --”

“They won’t get that far.” So quickly, Damianos’ voice had gone quiet again. He held Laurent’s gaze in earnest and reached out a hand to take his hand -- one that Laurent had unconsciously clenched into a fist. “We won’t let that happen. I promise.”

With every fiber in his being, Laurent wanted to believe that. But they both knew -- or Damianos had once -- that Laurent couldn’t only think of a situation from one angle. What could only be a dispute at the border, managed quickly, he had to imagine as a war that would span months. 

The door opened, the council members filing in. Damianos’ hold on Laurent tightened. 

It was simple, once Laurent could put his plan into words. 

It would take three days for the closest troops to travel to the Patran border if messengers were sent to the generals tonight. All the others, if and when they were needed, were a five to seven day’s ride out. Scribes were called, furiously writing as Laurent and Damianos dictated orders. The trusted messengers were told to prepare to leave within the hour. 

“If the slave forces in Patras continue to attack with regularity, Torgeir won’t be able to spare enough men for the border,” said Damianos as they leaned over a map of the peninsula, adjusting the lion figurines that represented Akielon forces. 

“We still don’t know where they’re getting their supplies,” said Lydus. All of the council member’s notes on the revolt sat before him in a sizable stack of parchment. “They took the fort at Isfanal last week.”

Laurent raised his eyebrows with respect for the victory. “Do they have backers? Any wealthy sponsors that could be lining their pockets?” Not that the lining would be that thick.

Lydus shook his head. “Vask outright denied the Crown’s requests for aid, but…”

“They would rather take the men for their own uses,” said Laurent. 

The council members all nodded.

That left Kempt, who was a slavery-free nation.

Laurent had never met his Kemptian grandmother, and only written to her once he was crowned. Her response had been enough proof of her ruthless rule:  _ ‘I will not delve into the quarrels of lesser kings that did not impact the Nation in anyway.’ _ If Torgeir had written to her for aid, the reply would have been seething. If she would have bothered to reply at all. 

“If there was a way to fund the revolts…” offered Annis with a head tilt. “To keep King Torgeir's eye off of the border…” 

“We don’t have a known contact among the revolution,” said Torgus with a shake of his head.

“How is that possible?” asked Damianos.

“The...commander speaks to Kyros of Sicyon, Exalted. The identity has never been revealed in our correspondence. And they have never asked for aid.”

“Get us a name,” said Laurent. “Then we can consider funding.”

“Your Majesty, the Crown cannot --”

“Our first priority is moving the freed slaves,” Laurent cut off Waleran before he could start listing off figures.

“And closing the borders,” said Damianos. “No Patran enters Vere or Akielos unless they seek asylum.”

The rest of the meeting was focused and exact. After, when Laurent could no longer feel chaos lingering in the air, there was other work to be done. He and Damianos went about their daily tasks, had dinner with the Court, and walked the gardens after, despite the bite to the air. 

It was late into the night when the palace had quieted that Laurent sat at a table in his antechamber, neglected paperwork spread over the surface. The lamps were starting to burn too low for him to make out every word clearly.

He had left Damianos to his own tasks, or to sleep, but the knock on their adjoining door was still not a surprise. He called for him to enter. 

“Would you like to read about the fall harvests?” Laurent asked when Damianos had entered the room. His quill poised above a sheet of half-filled parchment, a finger of his other hand pointing out the number he was copying for his calculation.

Damianos sighed. “There’s no use telling you to sleep, is there?”

“No.”

Damianos sighed, taking the seat across from him. When Laurent flicked his gaze up for a moment, he saw him dressed for bed. 

“We’ve done all we can,” said Damianos before Laurent could look away.

“I know that.”

“Then why do I feel like you’re creating contingency plans for contingency plans.”

“I am reading the harvest reports,” said Laurent, gesturing before him. He was only doing so because there was nothing else to do, and he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Not yet. 

Damianos sighed again, but said nothing. He sat quietly and let Laurent finish reading through the page, and then another. 

“I don’t…” Damianos said, “I don’t remember much of outlawing slavery, but I know we argued a lot.”

Laurent set down his quill, meeting Damianos’ gaze. “We weren’t mad at each other,” he said. “It was a momentous undertaking. We were foolishly optimistic that things would work out so well, and we were lucky they did.”

“I get the feeling that luck had nothing to do with it. You carefully calculated everything.”

He wasn’t wrong, but Laurent didn’t say so. “There was a lot of traveling. Arles was still unstable, and we had taken the week in the summer palace --”

“Before your coronation?”

Laurent nodded once. “Very shortly after yours, in fact. Too soon.”

“You stayed in Ios for my coronation.”

“I -- yes.” That was a memory Laurent hadn’t been aware Damianos had. He wondered how much his husband remembered that he hadn’t told him. As if each recovered memory wasn’t as monumental to him as they were to Laurent. Or maybe, the memories returned like a whisper of familiarity, and Damianos didn’t realize the gaps dissolving.

“You ruled two countries from my bedside like it was nothing,” said Damianos.

“I’m glad I had everyone fooled.” 

Damianos reached across the table to take Laurent’s hand. It was becoming a familiar gesture -- or really, Laurent was re-familiarizing himself with something that had once been second nature. 

“Not me,” said Damianos. 

They sat in silence for some time, Laurent allowing himself to caress the calluses on Damianos’ palm, to run the pad of his thumb over knuckles. It was simple and calming when everything around him felt on the verge of collapse. 

They would have to play Patras in the Veretian style. They couldn’t offer the foreign soldiers the option of retreat if a battle came. But there was only a small section of Patras that touched the Veretian border. The Akielon general and kyroi would want to follow tradition.

Should the armies have to assemble, it would be the first real test of their alliance.

Laurent remembered the camp at Marlas, sitting beside Auguste as the generals and their father gathered around a map of Delfeur. They had moved the Akielon markers closer to the fort each day, arguing over the merits in retreating behind the stone walls. Laurent had been young, his armour uncomfortable, his eyes wide in confusion. 

He hadn’t thought about the Akielons hovering over their own map, congratulating each other on their progress, Damianos at the head of the table beside his father detailing out the next day’s battle plan. While that thought was bitter now, he could imagine the grin on the young Crown Prince’s face, the excitement in his eyes as each plan worked and he could move the men closer and closer.

How ironic, thought Laurent, and not for the first time, that Damen had been getting everything he ever wanted in a victory while Laurent’s world all but ended. And to find them sitting as they were now, on the edge of something with another grieving brother…. 

“What are you thinking about?” said Damianos 

“Timing,” Laurent said quietly, tracing a circle on the back of his hand. “Fate.” 

“Are you going to stay up all night?”

“You do not need to sit up with me. One of us should be well-rested come morning.”

“And if I want to?” asked Damianos. When Laurent met his gaze, he found brown eyes that were open and so warm. 

It was another hour later before Laurent relinquished Damianos’ hand and seat, gently pushing his husband back to his chambers and to bed.

Outside the window, Laurent could see snowflakes falling. 

  
  



	6. Six

It was easy to get swept up in the planning, in missives and messengers coming and going, for Laurent to let himself forget -- even if only for a few minutes -- that every day was one closer to the anniversary of Auguste’s death. 

Until he woke that morning. 

_ “Ten years,”  _ Laurent thought as he sat up and rubbed at his blurry eyes. He felt every single one of them. 

There was a tradition to be observed, private though it was. For a moment, Laurent debated staying in bed and ignoring it. Maybe if he tried hard enough, if he focused on Patras above everything else, the day could be like any other as King. Maybe his duties would keep him too busy to mourn.

As if his mind -- as if his heart -- would ever allow him to forget his brother, even for a day.

He sighed quietly to himself and to the cat that was lying stretched out at the foot of the bed. The white longhair flicked her tail at him in what he assumed was judgment.

“I know,” he told her, and forced himself out of bed.

He dressed quickly, in the darkest blue jacket and trousers he possessed, and pulled on his winter boots and cloak. On his way out, he told Jord and Huet to stay where they were, and then he walked the silent halls outside to the royal garden.

The snow was untouched, the air cold enough Laurent could see his every exhale mixing with the air. Laurent walked delicately on the frosted path; each of his steps crunched the snow down beneath his boots.

The bust of Auguste wasn’t deep in the gardens, but far enough away from the entrance to give him privacy should anyone be awake. Laurent stopped in front of it, brushing the snow from the familiar profile with his bare hand. He did the same to the bench across from it, and sat down.

“Good morning, Brother,” he said, voice hoarse as he looked into stone eyes. “You’ve missed so much this time.”

The bust said nothing back, not that Laurent had expected anything else. His listened instead to the quiet of the winter morning.

As a young man in Vere, this day had been marked in sullen silence. Weather permitting, he would go to his brother’s statue -- that horrid likeness -- but otherwise, he would tuck away in his grief until his uncle had demanded he be present for dinner. Over bits of bread and soups and meat, the Regent would always make a cold and insincere remark on the passage of time, of Auguste and his natural leadership gone too soon. The rest of the country seemed to go on as if nothing was out of sorts. As if the death of one Crown Prince did not matter as long as someone else was there to take his place.

“Patras wants its slaves back,” Laurent said, eyes shifting to his pale hands clasped before him. “And they want them back now. Like it is that easy.” In his time-worn memory, he could hear his brother’s scoff and see his blue eyes roll in disdain. “Damianos -- Damen would be at the border already if I said it was a good idea. He won’t admit that, of course.”

If only it were a good idea. He didn’t know what their presence would do at the border other than be a beacon for war. 

“I thought he would have remembered by now,” he mused, more to himself than to the bust he brought his eyes back to. 

Laurent spoke to his brother, telling him about the courtly gossip from their country and the alliance, unable to resist smiling when he talked about the Forest Folk and their wolves, and then complaining about the delinquent tax payments from the lords. As he talked, snow started to fall again, and he kept track of time by the flakes sticking to the statue’s face. 

When Damianos found him, there was a thin layer of snow covering Auguste’s hair and nose. 

“Hello,” he said, a quiet greeting as he stopped a meter away. 

Laurent realized could no longer feel the tip of his nose. “Hello,” he replied.

“Jord said I could find you down here,” Damianos offered by way of explanation, his eyes moving to the bust and then back to Laurent.

“I wasn’t trying to hide.” 

“I don’t want to disturb you.”

“You’re not,” said Laurent, and then looked back to his brother. 

Veretian records showed that the winter of Laurent’s fourteenth year had been the mildest Delfeur had ever seen. From the fort’s windows, Auguste had kept hoping for a blizzard every day -- something to freeze the poorly dressed Akielons before they could reach the border. When the two countries stood on the eve of battle, no storm clouds in sight, he had told Laurent with a wistful voice and tired eyes that  _ “Maybe the war was meant to happen, Little Brother. We cannot deny fate what she wants.”  _

_ But what if you get hurt? _ Laurent had asked, eyes wide with worry.

_ I can handle a scratch or two,  _ Auguste had said, resting his hand on Laurent’s shoulder and squeezing. He had offered smiled, but Laurent had known it was forced.

“Should I go?” asked Damianos. 

Laurent shook his head, pulling himself from the past. 

“Do you want….”

“Come sit with me,” he said, offering a bare hand that Damianos moved quickly to take in both of his.

“Where are your gloves?” He asked, and then cursed the cold that must have seeped through his own. “How long have you been out here?”

Laurent made a noncommittal noise, taking in the warmth from Damianos’ large hands and closing his eyes for a second at the sensation. Damen was always so  _ warm. _ There hadn’t been a night in four winters that Laurent had gone to bed cold, or woken up in the middle of the night for another quilt. 

He slid over the small space between them until his thigh was flush with Damianos’. He wouldn’t deny himself this -- not today. He reached for another inch of comfort, resting his head on Damen’s shoulder. 

“Do you remember his statue in Arles?” Laurent asked after a comfortable silence that was long enough for feeling to have returned to his hands.

He felt Damianos nod. Their intertwined fingers squeezed together. “You took me to him that first day I visited as King. You hate that statue.”

“This one is much better.” Even if his memory had softened the edges of Auguste’s face, erased a blemish or two, Laurent could look at the stone carving and recognize his brother as he’d last seen him. 

“You spoke to my mother at the summer palace.”

“Yes,” Laurent confirmed. 

The Veretian courting rituals weren’t so different from Akielon in regards to asking permission to pursue another. Whereas that was all Damen would require to propose to his beloved, a Veretian Prince would have to return to the head of house and make a declaration of devotion. 

“I so badly wanted to be worthy of you.” 

Laurent, thrown by the admission, turned to Damen whose gaze was locked on the bust.

“You wanted me to meet your brother, but the past made that impossible and --”

“Damen…”

“-- then we stood before a statue and even as you berated it, your voice was full of admiration and love. I wanted you to talk about me that way, one day.”

Laurent’s sudden shortness of breath wasn’t from worry or panic, from sadness or longing. He brought a hand to Damianos’ chin, turning his face so their eyes met. 

“That is exactly how I speak of you,” he said. 

Unless he was very angry, but even then, Laurent knew his voice always betrayed his affection for his husband. Even when Damianos had looked at him with disdain and had only the memories of a slave, Laurent hadn’t been able to remain monotone. 

“That is exactly how I would speak of you to my brother,” Laurent added. “Because I would want him to love you as much as I do. He nearly would have.” 

Damianos smiled a little, but his eyes were full of sadness and guilt that Laurent didn’t want to give attention, not to something he himself had worked to move on from. While his heart ached for Auguste, and he knew he would mourn him for the rest of his life, Laurent had forgiven Damen for his part in it. 

Men were only mechanisms in war. 

Laurent kissed Damianos gently, a simple press of cold lips. 

“Come,” he said without pulling back. “Let’s go inside.”

  
  


+

  
  


It took two days for the first messenger to arrive with news that the first of their troops had made it to the Delfeur border, the majority stationed at Carconnett. 

The following day, a message from Nikandros was delivered. He was gathering the southern kyroi and generals, and those garrisons would ride soon for the southern border of Patras.

The day after that, the snow had been falling long and hard enough to force everyone to stay inside, allowing the courtiers more time to gossip, and tension mounting between the council and the Kings. It was midday when a messenger arrived, and demanded to see the Kings. 

He brought word that three of the safehouses in Sicyon had been burned down by Patran soldiers. 

With the missive in hand, eyes scanning the words for a third time, Laurent told himself he would not drink today. He very badly wanted to. 

“Well, we know the herald wasn’t shot down crossing the border,” Damianos said flatly. “How many of our troops have arrived?” 

“Nearly six hundred,” Laurent said, as if they hadn’t discussed that earlier. 

If they sent for more garrisons to march, it could look like a delayed arrival instead of a reaction, but Laurent didn’t know if they wanted to show more of their manpower after such a small incident.

“No one was hurt,” he reminded the both of them. “The houses were empty.” Thankfully. 

Damianos nodded, but he grabbed the report from Laurent, brow furrowing as his read the letter again.

“Damianos,” Laurent tried, repeating that no one had been hurt. He reached out, placing a hand on his forearm, only to have it shrugged off. 

“Would they really risk so many innocent people just so someone will do their washing out of fear?” 

“Yes,” said Laurent. “It’s all they know. They are afraid.”

“And they are wrong,” said Damianos with conviction. He tossed the report onto the table, and sighed with frustration. 

“Nikandros and the southern garrisons will arrive within the next fortnight.”

“I know.”

“We can send --”

“Laurent, stop. I know,” said Damianos, a hand out in emphasis. The other was loosening the ties at his neck that would have to be redone for the council meeting. “I didn’t think…” he halted his words with a shake of his head.

“General Landres has it under control,” said Laurent. 

“Until his next messenger bursts through the doors.”

“Until then,” he agreed. “He has your strategies. Whatever soldiers Torgeir has at the border will be overwhelmed shortly. That’s why they attacked now.”

“It’s dishonest.”

After so long, Laurent still found himself surprised with Damianos’ noble ideas when it came to battles and warfare. He hadn’t expected the Patran border patrol to send a warning to the safe houses so that they could retreat. Torgeir wanted the slaves returned, and his lords wanted them punished. 

“Let us hope they are killed quickly, then.”

There was nothing else they could do.

In the two weeks it took for Nikandros’ and the Akielon soldiers to travel to northern Aegina and Dice, each new missive from the east made him anxious. What turned out to be only bland reports on supply chains, headcounts of the freed slaves from forts, and other tedious messages of some importance had his pulse racing as he opened each, ready for a list of men lost, of more buildings torched or a fort attacked.

There had been nothing or sort, thankfully. Laurent wasn’t too stubborn of a man not to count the lack of destruction as a success, but with each new report, there was a council meeting, and each meeting seemed to drag on longer than the one before. The discussions of what little information from the border were circular, and only led to rehashing of the strategies already in place. 

From there, the conversations would shift to the other concerns of the alliance, the usual issues that had once been tedious and were now even less concerning. But, every day, the Master of Coin found a way to speak. And every day, when he brought up the taxation system, Laurent would call a servant to bring wine. He would pointedly ignore Damianos’ glare as he did so, focusing intently on each droning word the Master of Coin said. He always managed to hold himself to a single glass of wine. 

None of this was helped by the weather. 

It seemed that winter had come with Torgeir’s herald, settling in once he was sent back to Patras and refusing to let up for even a day. When the snow stopped, the temperature didn’t rise enough for it to matter, or for a horse ride to be tolerable even in the thickest of leathers. Training in the yard was only an option when the snow stopped, and while the King’s Guard would train with either King, it was easier to do so in the training room at night. 

But it was neither night, nor warm enough to visit Estelle in the stables. And so, for his sanity, Laurent had secluded himself in the library that morning with only the papers that had nothing do with Patras or the possible war. He had, regrettably, invited Damianos. 

“We cannot behead everyone who is late with their tax payments. Be reasonable,” said Laurent.

“It is  _ unreasonable _ for these lords to assume they can be delinquent for two quarters of the year and face no consequences.” 

“There are consequences, and there will be sterner ones in place shortly.” Laurent gestured to the parchment before him as evidence.

“Oh, yes. Once the draft meets your ridiculous standards, and the Council approves of the terms. Then the lords have to be informed and someone will try to revolt,” Damianos said dryly.

That was a pretty accurate description of what would happen, but Laurent was not going to tell him so. He looked back to the parchment and where he had left off writing, trying to keep hold on his train of the thought. 

“How long have you been working on this?”

Laurent paused, quill poised, and brought his gaze back to Damianos across the long stone table. He chose his next words very carefully.

“If you’re going to be difficult for no reason, you can go back to the Council and listen to them pick at each other between missives. I’m sure none of them will oppose your arguments, if that’s what you’re looking for. I want to get this done.”

“So they have something new to pick over.”

“Damianos.” The name was a warning. 

“I was merely suggesting that we replace those who are unwilling to pay their taxes with countrymen who won’t have the same issues,” said Damianos, his words disingenuous. 

“And while that is not an idea I oppose, we said we would keep the murder to a minimum for the first ten years of alliance."

“Really?” 

Laurent, his patience running thin, nodded very slowly. The Kings of Akielos and Vere wouldn’t be able to successfully rule if all of their people were dead. Though, at the moment he saw some advantages in foreign regicide. 

He hoped a messenger would arrive soon with something from the border. Anything. 

A servant with wine would do as well. 

“I know you are as restless as I am,” said Damianos when quiet had fallen back between them and Laurent had been able to get down another paragraph. “It’s frustrating how good you are at hiding it.”

“Only when we are not alone,” Laurent said. 

It held true now as it had on the road to Ravenel. When Damen had fallen asleep on his pallet, or been out drinking with the men by firelight, he had been able to sit without worrying what his expression betrayed, if the clenching of his jaw was noticeable or the set of his shoulders not that of an unaffected prince. It was the same reason that he had run to the Artes ruins in the middle of the night and freed Jokaste when no one else was awake. Somethings were better left in the dark, and Laurent counted his vulnerability among them. 

Damianos tilted his head to one side, feet coming to rest on the edge of the table like the barbarian he was. Laurent found it unfairly charming, and tried to school his expression. 

“It used to bother me, how quickly you could change. The Prince of Vere. The King to… mine,” he said.

Laurent felt himself flush, cheeks warm and undoubtedly red. Charm came too easily to Damianos for him to stay annoyed. 

“There has only ever been one of me,” he said. “As there has only ever been one of you.”

  
  


+

  
  


Laurent hated warfare. 

It was only a waiting game, and one he did not enjoy playing. Or losing. 

“How did they get across our borders?” 

No one on the Council had an answer for him, as there was none that would suffice. 

“We have the largest, most disciplined army across all four kingdoms, and a rag-tag group of mercenaries were able to infiltrate our camp, then our fort, and kidnap freed slaves?”

It was disgusting to have to reiterate the latest report from the border. It was also insulting. They had helped so many former slaves -- he and Damianos had given them freedom, and agency, and then tried to do the same for those who wanted to escape Patras. To what end?

“If Torgeir will not take our men seriously, then we ride for the border.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, but none of the council member’s expressions were anything but grim acceptance. As it should have been.

Thirteen lives had been taken -- he highly doubted the Patran’s would keep the slaves alive for long. Thirteen lives, and the reporting general hadn’t been able to to give a name for any of them. 

“Laurent is right,” said Damianos, voice gruff as it usually was right after he woke up. 

The missive had arrived in the middle of the night, the messenger once again demanding that he deliver the message to the Kings himself. Half-awake and half-laced into their clothing, Laurent and Damianos had rushed to the throne room to hear the news. The Council had been woken soon after. 

“We cannot allow our brothers and sister to be capture with deceit and undermining. If Patras wants to fight a two-front war, we will win.” There was no doubt in Damianos’ voice. Nothing to make a person feel anything less than assured, yet Laurent’s gut clenched. 

“Go back to your chambers. We will plan tomorrow. Be here by the eighth bell,” Laurent ordered, and then he pushed his chair back and left. 

He heard Damianos standing, and then other chairs scratching against the stone floor, but Laurent’s steps didn’t slow. He didn’t turn in the direction of his chambers; coming upon the throne room, he tasted something sour in his mouth. 

_ We cannot have war on our borders, _ he had told Damianos not so long ago, and yet here they were. It was the natural progression of all of this -- the month of troops marching to every meter of borderland between Patras and their countries, the many hours spent planning over maps, each route for supplies or men as important as the last while they tried to keep their people out of the way, and the messengers who received nothing but impatience and misplaced anger. Without Damianos or Laurent conceding to Torgeir, and with Torgeir high in his tower of righteousness and archaic tradition, there was only one solution. 

And at the crux of it all sat a dead brother. Another one. 

When Laurent came back from his thoughts, his breath was coming fast and he was across the palace, outside of the training arena. 

The space had been modelled off his own back in Arles, but doubled in size. Weapons lined the walls -- swords, daggers, bows with quivers, and practice armor tucked onto shelves. As it was the middle of the night, no torches were lit, but with one hanging nearby in the hallway, he lit those closest to the door, and then stood still. 

There was too much at stake on the border. Torgeir wouldn’t be pulled from Bazal, not for the entire Veretian and Akielon army spread across Patras’ borders. It would take a massacre to pull the king from his stone tower and slave revolt. They would have to make themselves into a real threat -- an enemy instead of neutral parties -- for Torgeir to turn his eye.

Maybe, Laurent considered, he already thought of them as enemies. 

He walked the length of the room, stopping before the practice swords. His and Damen’s hung at the top of each rack, side by side and a perfect example of dichotomy in their styles and cultures. The steel gleamed in the low flickering light, the grips and pommels shining with polish while all the blades below them were dull and scratched, wrapped lazily with leather for grip.

With half a mind to practice, Laurent reached for his sword. With the other half, he had no idea what he was doing. All he truly knew was that he and Damianos couldn’t take their countries to war. His heart sank with the inevitable truth. 

He felt his breath picked up again, his chest tightening as the idea of what was ahead of them came to him, and as he tried to foresee each possible outcome. Disagreeing council members, supply lines disrupted, lame and dying horses, poisoned water. At the border, at Carconnett, bodies pockmarking the fields, frost on closed eyelashes. Once freed slaves chained to one another, marching barefoot.

Damianos found him standing, sword point down in the sawdust, staring at the other blades.

“Laurent.” His name was said as a surprise, like even with the torches lit, he hadn’t anticipated seeing anyone down here. “What are you doing -- why aren’t you in bed?”

Turning to face him, Laurent saw he had changed from the hastily pulled-on clothes to those for exercise. 

“Why aren’t you in bed?” he repeated the question, not in the mood for hypocritical concern. Truly, he wasn’t in the mood for anything. 

Damianos furrowed his brow. “I thought to -- if you would rather be alone, say so and I’ll leave you be.”

He shook his head once, swinging his sword up so the blade rested against his shoulder. He didn’t know what he wanted. The nervous energy coupled with the lack of sleep made him feel manic and angry. For all the space in the room, Laurent felt the walls were too close. For all the distance between he and Damianos, he felt like they were on seperate fields. 

“What are you thinking?” Damianos asked. “We cannot ride out for a few days. If you’re worried --”

“I’m not,” interrupted Laurent, annoyed at the hint of the suggestion.

Judging by the considering look Damianos was giving him, they both knew that to be a lie.

Damianos who was calm and sure and had spent the last however long soothing the Council after Laurent’s departure. Damianos who who couldn’t remember fighting for his own crown, but would have no problem recalling his victory over Marlas. 

“We have time to plan. You can’t solve a problem we have yet to face,” said Damianos, coming to stand before him.

Laurent scoffed. 

“Should we wait for the more deaths, then? For more blank stares from the Council? What about a dinner with the Patran slavers to negotiate? Do you think they prefer veal or boar?”

“None of us predicted this,” Damianos tried to reason, his voice remaining level like he was speaking to a misunderstanding child. It only served to upset Laurent more. 

“Between you and me, we  _ should _ have!” he snarled. “With all those shared ideas between your people and Patras, apparently nobility on the battlefield no longer matters. This -- the attack is something I would have ordered,” he pointed a finger at his chest. “It’s something I  _ have  _ done. And I didn’t think -- I didn’t see it coming.”

““The Council cannot tell us --”

“The Council is too quiet on things that matter the most. And we still don’t have the name of the resistance contact.”

“Then they do not want our help. We cannot force them to take it, Laurent. We can only help those who ask.”

“And now those that are in danger. I didn’t think --” Laurent began. “I didn’t --” With his free hand, he pulled his hair back and closed his eyes. “We helped all those people. We changed the laws of your country, and we gave other’s asylum. They were starting their own lives and Torgeir thought he could  _ demand them back _ because he’s a king. He told his generals to cross into  _ my kingdom _ and take people as if they are cattle to be owned.”

A thought -- the image of Theomedes’ tent at Marlas, the missive sent months before that Akielos wanted Delfeur -- came to Laurent. Theomedes had made demands, as was his right as King -- as was Laurent’s right, and Damianos’, and Torgeir’s. It was their right to demand others fight battles for them, battles over beliefs that soldiers may not share, but would die for nonetheless.

He tried to separate the past from the present, but it had been so hard to do since Torgeir’s herald had arrived. 

“Laurent.” Damianos was close, peeling each of his finger’s from the sword’s hilt, then taking it from him.

At twenty, all Laurent had wanted was peace. An end to the fight with his uncle, with the Council, with the barbarian country to the south. He had wanted to move on from the last six years of his life, to leave his broken past where it lay. It had been his dream to take the throne, and for once be able to keep peace. He had planned to put everything he had into that. Into ruling for many boring years while Vere prospered, young boys weren’t hurt, and political disagreements were settled by treaties instead of deaths.

“You don’t have to predict Torgeir’s every move,” said Damianos, as if Laurent knew any other way to think. “We can defeat his soldiers at the border. We have the men.” 

Slowly, Laurent looked up from his boots. “Do you think that comforts me?” he asked, meeting Damianos’ gaze. “That we will order the slaughter of their men so that others can live?”

“If that’s the cost for Patras to learn its place.” 

“Like the cost of Delfeur was my brother?”

As soon as he said it, Laurent regretted it. But then there was a sick sense of pleasure as Damianos stood frozen before him, grip tightening on the sword pommel, looking like a man who stared down the tusks of a boar with only a broken spear. It warmed Laurent like the first sip of too much wine on a cold night.

He hated it the rushing in his blood, but knew too well.

Laurent wanted to argue. He wanted someone to push back, to let him take the blame he was feeling, to make sense of the anger inside of him instead of just standing there, reasonable and unmoved. 

“Are you going to regale me with tales of you on the battlefield? Maybe a retelling of the most important battle you ever fought and won -- because my uncle wanted you to?” he said, now trying to provoke Damianos.

“That isn’t going to work.”

But Laurent pushed on, words ice and sickening. “Torgeir has a few more brothers. Maybe we should go after them.”

“Laurent,” Damianos said firmly, his expression already schooled back into simple annoyance. 

That only served to sharpen his tongue. 

“Or maybe we should take our men and try to take a border province or two. I’m sure they belonged to Vere once. That’s sound reasoning, isn’t it? It was to your father.” 

“This isn’t about our past.”

“No. Why not build out the alliance? Why can’t we take from those unwilling to rule properly?”

“At that rate, why don’t we take all of Patras, then?” asked Damianos, arms crossed. “Is that what you want me to say? You still attack when you feel backed into a corner. I had thought you’d grown out of that.” Each word was filled with disappointment, like he’d expected better of Laurent. 

He always had, before. 

“How would you know?” he said, “Please, tell me exactly how I’ve behaved in the four years you’ve forgotten.”

They were both exhausted, both overworked. Laurent rubbed at his his eyes. In the flickering lights, Damianos didn’t budge. 

“I told you that isn’t going to work. Torgeir’s men didn’t accomplish much. We will be sure that they can’t do more.”

“They shouldn’t have accomplished anything.”

Damianos frowned. “Why do you always think you have to win every battle before the opponent knows they’re even on the board? Torgeir’s men got away with this little victory.”

“They took people, Damianos! And then they most likely tortured them for running away! This isn’t some --”

“They won’t get away with it again.I promise. We’ll make sure,” said Damianos, earnestly. 

He was so sure of the victory, so sure that everything would go according to plan when so far, it hadn’t. It made Laurent mad.

“You only saw the problem with slavery after I had you in chains. You remember that at least, don’t you?” He wanted to scream at Damianos as he took a step closer to him, as each word was said through clenched teeth. 

All Damianos did was raise a brow.

“Do you remember being chained to the floor in my harem? How much you hated that? Imagine what those poor people are going through, how they are being treated,” Laurent snarled. “If they are even alive!”

And there it was. 

He froze, cheeks flushed and breath shallow. 

Damianos bowed his head with a shake. When he looked back to Laurent, there was finally something in his eyes other than tired tolerance or benevolent understanding. Taking a step closer, he said Laurent’s name.

“No, don’t pity me,” said Laurent. “I’m not so naive that I don’t know the cost of doing what’s right, or what exactly we are asking our soldiers to do. The Patrans were following orders, I know that.”

That made him sick. To be a king who did not flinch at the loss of innocent lives, Torgeir must have fallen far from the man they thought him to be.

“We won’t let them take anyone else,” said Damianos. He reached out to hold Laurent’s chin between thumb and forefinger. “The generals have their orders. And once we’re there --”

“We’ll be a distraction.” 

But would they be big enough of one? He wasn’t concerned with his safety, nor Damianos’. There would be too many men between them and the border, then the stone walls of the fort.

It would be a game to keep the Patran’s eyes trained on them instead of the freed slaves. If they could move them further inland, another town over from the border to more secure forts without notice….

“I want to leave as soon as we can,” said Laurent.

“My King,” Damianos said, softly, “that was already painfully clear.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Laurent blamed his exhaustion for the way his hands clenched and his breath caught. Then, he closed his eyes and breathed in Damianos’ scent. When his husband pulled away, he reached for Laurent’s hand and waited until their eyes met. Then he looked around the room. 

“We fought once. Here?”

Laurent shook his head. “It was the old fort here.” 

“You cheated.”

“And you still won.”

Damianos gave him a considering look before moving to put Laurent’s sword back on the rack. 

“Neither of us came out ahead that night,” he said. Then, “You should go to bed, if you can.”

“I’m not --”

“Go to bed,” said Damianos again, his eyes trailing around the training room.

Time had no meaning with the poor lighting, and so Laurent couldn’t be sure what hour was but they both needed sleep. There was too much to be done in the coming days for them not to, and yet, that was why neither of them would get enough. 

“And you?” asked Laurent.

“After bit.”

Laurent waited until Damianos took his own sword down before turning to go. 


	7. Seven

It took three days of preparation for the Kings and their men to be ready for the road. The additional two days they waited for another garrison to arrive at Marlas only served to make Laurent more anxious. 

“We’ll be harder to ignore,” Damianos had said when the outriders had come.

“That is the opposite of what we are trying to achieve,” Laurent had reminded him sternly.

In reply, Damianos had winked.

The ride to Carconnett would take a fortnight if the weather held and they rode hard. The plan was to stick to main roads and the popular trade routes, both all but abandoned with the snow. 

The first day of riding was long, and slow, as had been anticipated, but the snow had stopped falling, for what little favor that was. Cold armor helped none of the men’s sour dispositions, and the horses and cattle seemed to refuse to move at a reasonable pace. 

On his Akielon warhorse, Damianos was silent and focused beside Laurent, looking out ahead as they set off. The dark circles under his eyes were mirrors of Laurent’s, and not only a play of the shadows. More than once over the past week, he had found Damianos in the training arena late into the night, swinging his sword at invisible opponents. Unable to sleep himself, Laurent would linger just out of the doorway and watch.

“It’ll be warmer when we arrive,” said Laurent after an hour of nothing but the sounds of men marching and wagon wheels turning. He had personally never seen Patras, but all reports spoke of a climate closer to southern Akielos. 

“I’ve never fought with snow in my boots,” said Damianos turning to him one corner of his mouth quirked.

“Neither have I.”

“Would it be better than mud, I wonder? Less chance of sinking. But the cold.” He seemed to be contemplating his choices and then frowned, realizing neither option was favorable. 

“You like the snow,” Laurent tried to assure him. He always found charm in his husband, a man who embodied the sun and was built for it, trying to conquer winter. 

“From inside the palace, I am sure. With that cocoa drink you made me in Arles. Our first winter, there.”

They had yet to have cocoa this season.

Laurent told his hopeful heart to calm down. This had been going on for too long, now. “Yes,” he said. 

At the keep in Ozuer, the household turned out to meet them as they rode in with the sunset, the lord in charge welcoming the Kings, promising them and their men a good night of food and rest. Both were gladly accepted, and then they set out again the next morning while their breath was still visible in the chill. 

The party rode through what would have been long green meadows, past more farmland and a solitary tradesman who stopped to stare as Laurent and Damianos rode by, still gaping over his shoulder as the rest of the party passed.

There were not enough men to be a considerable threat -- besides the added garrison, there was only an additional one-hundred and fifty men than what Laurent had once taken from Arles to Ravenel. Servants were few, the supplies as minimal as the could manage knowing their stops along the way. There was only one person at the border who knew to expect them; General Landres. Poor Nikandros, pulled once again from his wife’s side, knew as well. He had set up the southern garrisons and now rode to meet them. 

Word would travel, but Laurent wanted to arrive at the Patran border as surreptitiously as possible, just as the other garrisons arrived throughout, slowly adding numbers to the forces. When the trumpets sounded and the banners of Akielos and Vere flew above Carconnett, he wanted the Patran messengers to be dispatched in panic, sent to Bazal to deliver news while their forces cowered on their side of the border. 

It was that thought that warmed Laurent through the day’s long ride.

When sunset came, there was too much distance between them and any town or keep. Camp was set up while the cooks prepared supper, and Laurent and Damianos stood in their shared tent, lingering over a map-covered table, the edges of it held down by fruit. 

“We will reach Remon tomorrow.” Laurent drew his finger along their planned route, eyes focused on the map instead of the solitary bed. “The men are not fatigued, but if they are…”

“We shouldn’t take extra days while the weather cooperates,” said Damianos. 

“I know.”

“If we reach Tronsson before noon, we’ll have most of the day. Or, we can take the next day and rest the animals as well.” Damianos leaned across the map to point at the small X marking the keep. 

“If we get caught in a storm --”

“We have the supplies to hunker down. But you said it’ll be getting warmer soon.”

Laurent looked up at his teasing tone of voice. Damianos smirked back at him. 

“Soon is not tomorrow,” he said. “But you are more than welcome to tell the men that, if you would like.” 

“What will you give me if I do?” asked Damianos, his dimple on display. 

Laurent pretended to be unaffected, and also did not smile back. Instead, he acted like he was weighing his options, tilting his head from side to side. “Five gold coins. But you have to tell them when we ride out in the morning -- when they can still see their breath.”

A raised a brow. “Only five?”

“Surely you don’t need more.”

“I know your pockets are deeper than that, My King.”

Laurent’s heart fluttered at the pet-name, and at the situation in general. This was a military ride, and here he and Damianos were flirting. “As are yours, Exalted. Won’t the men heed your advice?”

“What day should we tell them to expect the warmth?” Damianos said, but then shook his head. “Let’s not make them miserable with hope.”

The evening meal was delivered shortly after that, and then eaten with the both of them still leaning over the map. There was nothing left to strategize, but like it had once been in a different tent, they passed the hours in discussion. They met with their captains and heard their concerns and reports on the men. When the inventories were delivered -- barely changed from the last -- they reviewed those as well.

It was when the candles were burning low and the wine jug nearly empty between the two of them that a comfortable silence finally had the chance to fall. 

His goblet in a loose grip, Laurent studied the pen strokes on the map, tracing the letters with his eyes and then the army’s route again. He could feel the day’s ride settling onto his shoulders, the tightness of the lacing across his chest, and wondered if it would be too soon to go to crawl between the furs and pretend the morning wouldn’t be there too soon.

Tents had always felt intimate to Laurent. Even as a boy, he had loved the proximity of everything and everyone he cared about when in camp. Everything draped in heavy fabrics and furs, the lighting barely acceptable. Baths, he remembered, had been forced upon him less than when they were home at Arles. He and Auguste had always shared a tent, and bedtimes had no meaning with his brother was in charge. Instead, they would sit at a table, just like this one, and talk late into the night. No matter where they had been, or where they had been going, Laurent had always felt warm and safe in a tent with his brother. 

Laurent pulled his eyes from the map, looking over to Damianos. There was still tension in his shoulders, his posture straight as his eyes shifted across the tent with a hesitant familiarity. 

“Do you remember any of our ride through Vere?” Laurent asked quietly, feeling an echo of warmth from another march across his kingdom. 

Damianos turned abruptly, his eyes full of something Laurent couldn’t read. “I remember your uncle’s men, when Govart was still around,” he said. 

“We dealt with him quickly.”

“Not well enough.”

There was a hint of displeasure in his voice that had Laurent frowning. “I handled it, just fine.”

“He stabbed you,” said Damianos. His eyes drifted to his shoulder as his fist on the table clenched. “It was him in Fortaine with Guion, was it not?”

Laurent nodded. He wasn’t sure if he had ever told Damen how he had disposed of his uncle’s henchman. Admittedly, it had been a bit ridiculous, but his resources had been limited. The chair had worked. His shoulder had recovered. 

But he remembered being alone in that cell, wishing someone would save him, and the pit in his chest knowing that no one would. Damen had been too far away and expecting a rendezvous. What men had been with him were dead or scattered. 

“I didn’t know if I was going to make it, or if you were alive,” said Laurent. “They put me in these old dungeons well below the fort. I knew I had missed Charcy.” He didn’t know what Damianos had remembered of that time, if he remembered Nikandros at the gates of Ravenel or Laurent’s promise to meet him on the battlefield. If he had remembered the night before all that, when he had been ordered to Laurent’s chambers.

Clearly his throat, Laurent sat up straight. Part of him wanted to know every single thing Damianos had remembered, but another part was still too anxious to ask.

“How did they get you?” asked Damianos.

“A miscalculation.” He received an unimpressed raised eyebrow in response. “It’s not like we left anyone alive long enough to ask them. We had all three forts -- that was more important.” 

“Guion --”

“Would have said whatever he thought would keep him alive.”

Laurent didn’t want to talk about Guion, who was rotting in a cell in the depths ofr Arles. Or his wife, Lyose, who held Fortaine now with her remaining sons, loyal to the crown above her own happiness. 

With a minute shake of his head, Laurent reached for one of the oranges still holding down the map. He could feel Damianos study him as he methodically start to peel the skin from the fruit. It was a task that took little attention, but he focused in on it and let the other man watch. 

Outside the tent, there were the sounds of the men at their fires and horses nickering, of the camp settling for the night. 

“If you’re going to make your rounds, I would go sooner rather than later,” Laurent said when his orange was gone and Damianos had finished off the wine. The Akielon King was the type to know his men off the battlefield -- to share in the camaraderie of battle. “I won’t be up for much longer,” he admitted.

There was only one bed, which in all the preparation had escaped both their notice, but Laurent found the situation wasn’t cause for concern. He and Damianos had slept in smaller tents than this with more building between them than what they had now.

“Do you remember the Vaskian camp, after the ambush?” he asked on a whim.

That feeling of ownership, the jealousy, echoed through him as Laurent remembered the thrill of surviving the ambush, of them both being alive, and so close to giving in to his desires, knowing that Damen felt the same. When Halvik had once again offered up her girls, his refusal had been instantaneous. 

“You wouldn’t let the women touch me,” said Damianos still across from him, eyes dark from the dimming light and something else.

“Enough people had already touched you.”

The mercenaries had beaten him on Laurent’s suggestion --  _ “A quick death hurts less,” _ he remembered telling them in a desperate and half-thought ploy. Anything to keep Damen alive just a little longer. Just until the Vaskains arrived.

Just until Ravenel was his. 

Just until Laurent worked up the courage to have what he wanted. Just that once. 

“One man had touched you….It was enough,” said Damianos. “I didn’t --” he paused on breath. “I didn’t like it.”

One man's hands on him had indeed driven Damen violently enough to attempt to kill. Laurent remembered the look in his eyes; the fire unleashed ready to set them all aflame. That same fire burned tamely that night when he saw Damen again in the Vaskian tent, and every night since. 

He saw that fire now and longed to hold it again, but refrained. When he lifted his wine glass, he found it empty. 

It was Damianos who made the decision, moving slowly around the table to take what he wanted -- a kiss brought on so tenderly from memories and wine. Laurent, weak for Damen’s touch as always, let it happen.

A single kiss turned into two, hands reaching, gripping, holding each other close. By the third kiss, Damen hauled Laurent up and had him on the table, scattering their maps and other pieces of parchment.   
  
Damen’s hands were working on unlacing his jacket, muscle memory kicking in. Laurent, in a rush of heat and lust, reached between them and gripped his husband hard through his trousers. 

Damen let out a heavy groan into his mouth. “Like that,” he breathed before taking Laurent’s lips again.

As soon as the jacket was open enough, Damen abandoned his lips to latch onto his neck, sucking in such a delicate place, leaving Laurent whimpering, grasping at his back. Laurent’s hands began to slip up the back of Damen’s undershirt, fingers gripping onto rippled skin, threatening once more to leave deep marks from more heated moments.

Laurent’s jacket was nearly off of him when they were interrupted by someone coming into the front half of the tent.

“What,” Damen demanded with a growl, barely pulling back from Laurent’s skin. 

Laurent could feel his breath coming back to him as the intruder explained the reason for his interruption -- some report Damen had ordered be brought to him as soon as it was completed. 

Closing his eyes, Laurent pushed Damen away with a firm hand to the center of his chest, and then once he had a enough room, slid off the table. He listened to Damen’s gruff replies to the poor soldier’s report, catching on to the important details and letting the rest go as his breath came back to normal and he worked on untying the laces at his wrists. 

When they were alone again, Laurent was down to his trousers and undershirt, braiding his hair back from his face. Damianos turned towards him, the fire in his brown eyes down to a flicker. It made him look more dangerous than before, but there was consideration there. 

Laurent stood still and let himself be examined. He knew how he looked. Lips swollen, cheeks flushed. His neck ached in a way that meant there would be a mark there in the morning, or more than one. 

For the first time in too long he felt desired, and ready to give way to his impulses.

Instead, he said, “Go check on the troops.” 

“Laurent -- ” Damen stopped and ran a hand over his face in what Laurent knew to be frustration and exhaustion.

“I’ll be here when you return,” he promised, gathering fur-lined gloves and a cloak from the chest beside his own. 

“You’ll be asleep.”

“Probably.” Standing before Damen, he paused. “That night, in Vask,” he began, hands clenching. “I already had made up my mind that -- I wanted to be with you, despite everything.” Another breath. “And I have never been good with sharing. Had you not been hurt --”

Damen cut him off with another kiss, slow and intimate, a hand coming to tilt Laurent’s chin.

“I’ll be quiet when I return,” he said when they broke apart, and then stepped back with the cloak and gloves. He didn’t turn from Laurent until he was at the tent flap, pulling on his hat.

When Laurent went to bed that night, he wrapped himself in the furs, moving to what would have been his side of their bed, and easily closed his eyes. He nuzzled into the pillow, breathed deep and easily fell asleep.

When he woke the next morning, before any servant or messenger came in, his head was on Damen’s chest, hand resting over his heart. There was an arm around his back, and a gentle hand on his hip holding him close. 

He pressed a gentle kiss to Damen’s skin, and breathed him in.

+

  
  


In the keep at Tronsson, Laurent found himself with Paschal helping to sort through his supplies.

The party would be on the road again the following morning, as soon as supplies were gathered and the animals rested enough. There was no point in the physician unpacking all of his tools, but Laurent knew it was something the man did every night, even on the road. 

Organizing the bottles had been a task given to him as a little boy. When a scraped knee had been bandaged, or a bloody nose dealt with, Laurent would sit on the cot in Paschal’s rooms, waiting for either his nursemaid or brother to come back for him. He would try to be well behaved and stay out of the way as much as possible.

But there had been so many contraptions around the room, all these things Laurent didn’t understand but wanted to know about. He had loved the colors of all the tonics lined up neatly on the shelves, the bottles so delicate looking. 

The first time Paschal had offered him one to hold, it was with a gentle reminder to be extremely careful. The next time, when his headache was just from thirst and easily resolved with two glasses of water, he had asked Laurent if he would like to organize all the bottles while they waited for the nursemaid.

There had been a dark violet liquid in a tiny bottle that Laurent remembered vividly. It had been his favorite in the way children latched onto things in room and wanted them. Each time, he would ask Paschal what it was for, and each time the answer would differ. 

He didn’t see that particular liquid now, his fingers dancing across the stoppered tops. 

“I didn’t think you traveled with all of this.”

“You never know what you might need,” said Paschal. He rolled a long strip of bandages tightly, placing it beside the others. “That orange salve there, that’s for pustules. And wouldn’t you know, someone here has one. The lord asked me to look in on him before we go.”

“Sounds lovely.” Laurent moved the bottle of salve away from the others. He knew enough about pustules to know he didn’t want to see one being drained. “They’re not contagious?”

“No, no.” Paschal shook his head, unconcerned. “Hand me the white bottle,” he pointed to another cream. 

Laurent did as was instructed, and then set to straightening the bottles again. 

“You haven’t been to see me, lately. Are you sleeping again?” asked Paschal, moving around the room. 

“Better than before.” His eyes found the trio of bottles holding the familiar green liquid. 

“And your drinking?” 

With a raised brow, Laurent turned to the older man, finding his expression mirrored. 

It was different between them than it was with Laurent and any other servant. Paschal was the last remaining member of his father’s household, the last person alive who had known him as a boy beyond the occasional dignitary that had come to the capital for a banquet or tournament. He had watched Laurent grow up, struggle through his uncle’s court and control, and then be crowned. 

If there was anyone who could give the King of Vere fatherly advice, it was his physician. Laurent knew his curiosity was well meant. 

“Exalted was worrying. He asked about our hangover remedies,” said Paschal by way of explanation. 

“I’m fine.”

“You were not for quite awhile.” 

Averting his eyes, Laurent could admit that. “No, but… he’s better,” and at the crux of it, Damen’s memory returning meant Laurent was doing better too. “I don’t know how much he’s remembered, but….” It was enough, he told himself. 

“He says his headaches are gone,” said Paschal. “The last few times I examined him, he had more question about how you were doing than himself.” 

“I’m fine,” repeated Laurent.

The physician nodded, putting his bag beneath the bed and then rearranging the rolled up bandages. “But if you’re not…” he gave Laurent a considering look. “Soup always helps me.”

“Soup?” 

Paschal nodded again. “The onion one Brittane in the kitchen makes -- with the bread and cheese. It’s what helped your brother, too. He came to me one morning. He was sixteen? Fifteen?” He shook his head; that detail wasn’t the point. “Poor boy looked paler than you and green at the same time. He’d snuck down to the tavern and was convinced he was dying.”

Laurent couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Really?” he asked as he tried to imagine his big brother in such a mess. 

“Oh yes, he made me promise not to tell your father. Had to swear an oath….”

  
  


+

  
  


Each morning that Laurent woke in the tent, he did so with Damianos beside him. 

Those mornings, he woke more rested than he had in months. 

As the Kings’ party made their way east, the morning chill burned off earlier and earlier, the soldier’s heavy cloaks and hats folded into their packs before the midday meal.

They were three days from the Patran border when an oxen went lame, and too far from any keep or town to do more than make camp then and there. It would only be a half day’s delay, and Laurent and Damianos could have easily ridden to the fort prepared for their arrival. Instead, they made camp with their men, and Laurent had taken it upon himself to run them through a set of drills. 

Two hours later, he stood before the troop, sword resting on the ground and his hands clasped over the pommel. The feeling of satisfaction that only came after physical exertion rushed through him, but he knew the men could give him more.

“Again!” he called.

Their army was a formidable opponent. The ruthless discipline of the Akielon training and the quick-minded and footed work of the Veretian way blended together seamlessly. The drills, designed by Damen and their generals two years back had each culture borrowing from the other perfectly. 

_ Torgeir’s border soldiers don’t stand a chance, _ thought Laurent, making sure his pride was covered by his impassive gaze.

Later, he stood in the front area of the royal tent, a missive in hand that a servant had brought to him on the training field. 

Each word he read brought him a sick sense of pleasure. Patran soldiers had been captured. More than twice the amount of freed slaves they had kidnapped. They would be held until the Kings arrived and saw fit what to do with them. 

It would be fitting to kill the captives, as they had done the same to their own prisoners, Laurent was sure. But there was still time before that decision had to be made. Enough days lay between their party and Carconett that more soldiers could be taken, or some of their own could be captured instead. 

The Patrans could rot in the cells until then.

Laurent took the small victory for what it was, smirking as he let the parchment fall to the table. 

“Oh, they found you,” Damianos said as he came into the tent, sweat gleaming on his face and pulling at the laces of the collar of his jacket.

“And you were?”

“Inspecting the weapons. There’s another one.” He gestured to the pile of letters in the center of the table, the map, as always, laid out beneath them. “Makedon and his men made it to Abas.”

“Excellent.” 

The town was just over the Delfeur border in Sicyon, less than an hour’s ride from Patras -- far enough away for the Patran’s not to notice just how many of the alliance’s army had been gathered. 

“Did I ever tell you how it bothers me that he addresses messages to you about my country?” The question was said playfully, the look in Damianos’ eyes shifting quickly to match it.

Laurent’s smile grew as he took a seat at the table, crossing one leg over the other. “We have an alliance and he lives in my country. And I am his favorite.”

A chuckle. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true. Now.” He pushed the letters to the side, focusing on the borderlines between the three countries and the little tower marking Abas. “Who else has yet to arrive?”

It was hard to sit across from the other man and maintain his steel composure, to not act on every heated gaze and keep his own fondness under control. Damianos had always been charming without intent, his kindness and care as much a part of him as the victorious war commander, or as a slave in Arles. It had been a trap Laurent had fought long and hard not to fall into before he even realized it was too late. 

As he tapped his fingers on the table’s edge, he felt a ghost of Damen’s lips against his and the frenzied heat that had followed. His chest ached, but for once it wasn’t in sadness. One of the last barriers between them had broken than night. 

Now there were casual touches Laurent had once been used to; a hand on his shoulder to catch his attention, a slight pressure on the small of his back to guide him when they walked through the camp. He would reach for Damen’s hand or rest his on the other’s thigh under the table when the impatient fidgeting began, and had finally allowed himself to push the errant curl from Damen’s eyes as often as needed.

In private, the little they could find, lingering kisses strove for closeness and something that would take more time. 

Laurent could still feel the finger Damen had trailed down his cheek that morning, his touch featherlight, the look in his eyes reverent. 

“Laurent.”

He turned sharply, his name catching his attention, but he hadn’t heard anything Damen had said before that. Unwilling to admit that, he waited for the words to be repeated and ignored the smug look on his husband’s face.

“I wish you would pay as close attention to my words as you do to the movement of my mouth.” Damen spoke in his mother-tongue, as if Laurent would not understand. Or maybe because he knew he would. 

Laurent did not blush like he would have at twenty, tearing his eyes from the other man and trying to get himself to calm, to sound unaffected. Instead, he blinked and very blandly said in Akielon, “Do not flatter yourself. We all know you’re attractive.”

“Oh, do  _ we? _ ”

“Yes. You’re a piece of Akielon gold,” he said, using the Akielon phrase he had heard Lazar use to describe Pallas once. “That’s the only reason I married you. Has anything from the Varenne or Belloy generals come?” he asked, seriously. 

They were still waiting on the confirmed arrival from the Veretian garrisons that had been stationed at the country’s northern border after the ordeal with the Forest Folk. They were to gather at Acquitart and then move to small mountain range between Patras and Vask. 

Damianos stopped smirking, shifting back to the war commander he was with a frown and a shake of his head. “When did we expect them to arrive?” 

“Any day, now. Before we do.” Which didn’t leave much time. Laurent brought a hand up and rubbed at the sudden throbbing. 

He didn’t know what else to do other than go through their plans again. They would be relying on a system of beacons on top of the forts and keeps to alert those all along the border that they had arrived. That evening, the border patrols would be lines of soldiers in perfection formation, facing the Patran border. Strategically, they would let Patran scouts through so they could report back the overwhelming number of Akielon and Veretian troops. 

And then, they would wait for Patras’ move. 

  
  


+

  
  


Laurent woke with a sharp gasp, the images of his nightmare visceral as the tent around him came into focus. 

Sitting up, he threw back the blankets and planted his feet on the steady ground. His heart pounded in his chest to the point of pain, his breath unsteady. 

“Laurent?” said Damen from beside him, voice rough with sleep. 

“Go back to sleep,” he ordered, hands coming to his hair and elbows braced on knees. He fought the urge to vomit. He was too hot, suffocating, coated head to toe in cold sweat. 

“Laurent.” A hand came to his shoulder that he brushed off. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” His voice was ragged; he swallowed and then finally managed a deep breath. “It was just a dream.” He repeated it silently to himself just to reinforce it the truth. 

There had been so much blood. 

Pushing off the bed with haste, Laurent took two steps forward but there was nowhere to truly go. The tent was dark and stifling, too warm even with the chill outside. There was only quiet. Combing a hand through his sweat-slick hair again, he looked towards the tent flap.

“You don’t have nightmares anymore,” said Damen. 

When Laurent looked over his shoulder, the other man was propped up on his side, watching him.

“Not often,” he said quietly, turning back to the tent flap. 

Damen wasn’t dead. He was right there. Everything was fine. He couldn’t have died on a battlefield they had yet to reach. He was there, in their bed, Laurent told himself. The nightmare replayed in his mind all the same so his heart wouldn’t calm down.

The mud beneath Damen’s body congealing with blood from the sword through his breast. His coughing as Laurent kneeled beside him, trying to find something comforting to say, the strange noises he knew were from a battle all around them but were too sharp to be real. 

“You cannot go outside,” Damen soothed, his voice low. “It’s too cold.”

“I know -- I just.” Laurent stopped. 

“Come here.”

When he was younger, Laurent would wake from a nightmare once or twice a week, eyes peeling open, every muscle tense, and his harsh breathing the only sound. Staring at the dark canopy overhead, he wouldn’t move -- first frozen from the terror and then to convince his body to calm. It would take hours and when he did doze off, it had never been restful. Knowing that, sometimes he would get up and check the locks on his chamber door and the placement of all his hidden knives. 

His eyes shifted to a specific chair cushion, and then back over to the bed where beneath his pillow there was a dagger.

“Go back to sleep,” he told Damen again. 

Instead, the other man got up. He was dressed in as little as Laurent -- only a pair of sleep trousers -- and the light from the lamp did unfair things to his skin. As Laurent still tried to separate reality from everything else, he remembered another tent that had been smaller, and almost as lavish. He could feel Damen’s hands on his back, hear his well meaning suggestions for Laurent to relax, that his uncle wasn’t unbeatable.

A goblet of wine was held out in front of him.

Laurent took it and then set it down.

“I never wake you anymore,” he said.

Damen frowned. “You said -- ” 

“The nightmares are rare, but I can usually recognize them for what they are, even asleep. I can wake myself up.”

But not tonight.

“Why don’t you tell me?”

Laurent sighed, quietly. He pulled one of the chairs away from the table and slumped into it. In a balanced tone he said, “Both of us don’t have to relive the past just because my mind forces it upon me. It’s fine. I can fall back asleep quickly. Usually.” 

But not tonight. If there would be more sleep for him tonight, he knew it wouldn’t be for hours. 

Damen moved, grabbing another chair to bring beside Laurent. As he took a seat, lamp light glinted off his cuff in a familiar way and caught Laurent’s eye. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“No,” said Laurent. 

He wanted to tell him to go back to bed, to make the excuse again that one of them should be rested. Laurent would do better alone with his thoughts; he had for this long. He wanted to be able to look at his husband and not see the vibrant red streaming from the corner of his mouth and the light leaving his eyes. He wanted to forget the fictional whispered proclamations of love, and his own pleas for Damen to stay awake, to wait for Paschal. 

Instead, he reached out a finger to trail along the gold cuff that matched his. Damen sat very still as Laurent traced over the engravings, then did so again. 

“You used to do that,” he finally said. “I remember, before bed?”

Laurent nodded. His finger ran the circumference of the cuff, then trailed down the top of his hand, across his knuckles and then back again. It had been an idle action that turned into habit, something he found himself doing when they lay in bed, words slurring as politics turned to pillow talk.

“Once the palace was complete,” he began, focusing his mind on the past and not on the awful nightmare that could hold the future, “and we could finally be together every day, we made a promise. No matter what we were dealing with after dinner, by the tenth bell we would come to our chambers. It was a disaster at first,” he admitted with some fondness. “I don’t think either of us expected the alliance to be easy, or that building a shared palace our countries would accept would work. Or that things would slow down once we were there but -- ”

“I remember,” said Damen. “Parts, but… I was so excited.”

“We both were. And so tired.” Laurent shook his head a little at the memory of being too exhausted to do anything but lay in bed beside Damen, a hand resting on his shoulder, and a whispered  _ “I love you”  _ before falling asleep.  __

“The cooks were baffled that they would be sharing the kitchen.”

“Because they had never had to share before. And how would two cuisines exist in one kitchen.” Laurent rolled his eyes. If every crisis they had was that simplistic, they wouldn’t be two days from Carconnett and the possible bloodshed.

He pushed the intrusive thought from his mind, eyes closing for a moment.

Outside, one of the guards coughed.

“You aren’t drinking as much,” Damen said when the quiet between them lingered, Laurent still tracing his fingers along his cuff. 

“No. The reason…” Laurent trailed off with a half-hearted gesture. “A drunk king is a dead king.” His father had often told him and Auguste so. But he wasn’t in as much pain as before, nor did he have as many thoughts to silence. 

Damen sat close to him now, alive and warm with a gentle gaze focused on Laurent, all his attention on what he was saying. No, Laurent didn’t need to drink now. 

“You never drank before.”

He was still so sure of that fact that Laurent couldn’t help the quirk of his lip. “Yes, thank you for the reminder.”

“You didn’t even drink after we took Ravenel.”

“Nor did you.” 

“I still don’t… ” Damen trailed off again, this time with a sigh. “I don’t remember that night past the celebrations in the hall.”

“That’s alright.”

“No, it isn’t.” Placing his other hand on top of Laurent’s, Damen squeezed and then waited until he looked up and met his eyes. “There is so much -- ”

“That you  _ can  _ recall,” Laurent said, cutting him off.

Damen shook his head once, looking away. Laurent brought his eyes back to him with a gentle hand on his chin.

“You’re not going to be believe me, and maybe -- ” Again, he saw the images from his nightmare: the blood, the sword, the mud beneath his knees. “You don’t have to remember everything, Damen. We’re here, and we’re together and there were many nights when I thought that would never happen again.” 

It felt good to admit that outloud, to tell Damen that what they had was  _ enough,  _ because right then, Laurent knew it was _.  _

“I spent a lot of that first month being mad about fate and mad at you for whatever it is that happened, and then mad at myself for not preventing it.”

“You were away at Fortaine,” Damen argued.

“I could have lost you, completely.” And that fact had fuelled his sharpness so early on. How could Damen put himself in a situation where losing his memory wasn’t the worst that could happen? That sort of recklessness was unbecoming of a king, let alone Laurent’s husband. 

_ Where would I be had it been worse?  _ Laurent asked himself, knowing the answer. He caressed the skin across Damen’s jaw. 

“I want to remember,” he said.

“Maybe you will,” said Laurent. “But if not, I will still love you.”

For once, it was Damen who seemed to be overwhelmed, his eyes closing again at Laurent’s words, a hint of color coming to his cheeks. 

Softly, privately, Laurent smiled to himself, bringing his forehead to rest against Damen’s and letting both of them just be. 

Later, when they pulled apart, he knew he still wouldn’t be able to sleep but he let Damen lead him back to the bed and arrange them so they lay facing each other. As Damen settled, Laurent playing with the errant curl he loved. 

“If I try to kiss you now, there’s a likely chance we’ll be interrupted,” he whispered. 

“That’s okay,” said Damen, eyes closed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I was researching French and Greek hangover cures, I was talking to [ Beefy ](http://sitical.tumblr.com/), and she drew hungover Damen with the classic Ancient Greek cures of cabbage and flower crowns (no, seriously). [ Check it out here! ](http://sitical.tumblr.com/post/179727428731/they-say-the-ancient-greeks-would-eat-cabbage-and)


	8. Eight

They arrived at Carconett in the middle of the night, traveling in small groups. Damen and Laurent were the last to arrive, the fort in a quiet chaos as General Landres stood in the hall, giving orders to any of the incoming soldiers who passed. Beside him were the Lord and Lady DeGoudry, caretakers of the fort, wide-eyed and hesitant and looking like they had dressed in the first proper thing they could find.

“General,” began Laurent after quick introductions were made. 

“Your orders were clear, Your Majesties,” the man said with a bow to each of them. “I hope your ride was easy?”

“Like a nice stroll through the gardens,” said Damen. 

One corner of Laurent’s mouth quirked. “Yes, as Damianos said. No one was injured or horses lamed. Thank you for cooperating,” he said to Lord DeGoudry. 

“Of c-course, Your Majesty,” said the man. He was middle-aged, his brown hair more gray than anything else. Damen noticed the light indention of pillow creases on his cheek.

“You can go back to bed,” said Damen, nodding to him and his wife. “Our plans needs not ruin your sleep.”

“Beyond what they already have,” added Laurent. “We will be as quiet as mice.”

A passing soldier with a handful of spears struggled, cursing loudly, as if to purposefully disprove Laurent’s word. He didn’t see Laurent’s raised eyebrow or his disdainful glare. 

“We will see you for breakfast,” he said, dismissing the couple. When they were far enough away, he turned to Landres. “Report.”

And so the hours passed.

  
  


+

  
  


As the Crown Prince of Akielos, Damen had been to Patran capital twice on his father’s behest.

From the Aegina border, the country was nothing but rocky, arid, and dry. When a party was finally only one day’s travel from Bazal, they had to cross a desert strewn with the remains of animals and deserters, bones bleached by the hot sun. Only with enough water, supplies, and the proper attire or shaded wagons would you reach the capital. 

Bazal was an oasis, alive like nothing else surrounding it. It was a perfect juxtaposition of Akielon refinement with the long pillars and loggias, and the Veretian patterned tiles and bright colors. Everything Damen had looked at reminded him of gemstones on the fingers of his father and kyroi. The people, the food, the culture -- everything had been just enough to excite him: silks, spice, leather, a wine he found too sweet but that lingered on his tongue.

All the conflicts and tragedies had been hidden from the visiting royalty -- the rape and starvation, the thievery and murder. But one did not comment on those situations to a foreign king while standing in their country. Damen had gone to Patras, done his duty, and the tidied up his memories so best to serve both kingdoms and to keep the peace.

As he now looked off the battlements of Carconett, there was nothing before him to suggest all the horrors in the world existed so close. The few hills covered in dead grass off in the distance looked no different than his own country, or Vere. 

It was too early yet for the soldiers on either side to have marched to the border, or for the Kings’ banners to be unfurled over the fort’s towers. That would wait for the perfect moment -- as designed by Laurent. 

“They said you got in late last night,” said a familiar voice from behind.

Damen turned from the battlements’ edge, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Old friend,” he said as Nikandros came to stand at his side. They clapped one another on the shoulder in greeting. 

“How long did Laurent have you waiting in the hills?” Nikandros asked with a quirk of his lip.

“We stopped the day before on the other side.” 

The kyros snorted at that, and then turned out to look across the land. He and his garrisons had only arrived hours before the Kings’ party, but they had pulled all the Patran attention with them as they moved north. 

“Did you see him?” Damen asked. 

He had left Laurent at the dining table, picking at a bowl of fruit and reading through reports while members of the household stared wide-eyed. If their King had been purposefully making a show of eating berries, only Damen knew. 

“His Majesty told me where to find you. I would ask if he’s slept….” Nikandros trailed off, knowing better. 

Damen could feel his own lack of sleep at the edge of his consciousness, a slight dizziness if he moved too quickly, but nothing of too much concern yet. The hour he had dozed between their arrival and sunrise, he knew that Laurent had not done the same. 

It felt like those early days on the ride from Arles, when Damen would be ordered to bed and Laurent would not return until dawn. Then, he had had no choice but to leave the Prince of Vere to his own devices, nor had he cared what Laurent had been doing in those late hours. The days to the border had been numbered by then, and Damen had counted each mile they moved closer to Akielos, hoping for home, and to be rid of the Vere and all of its complicated schemes and despicable royal family.

It was no longer disconcerting to think of his home as Marlas, or as Laurent. To see those complicated schemes in play and recognize them for what they were, but also know the look in those blue eyes over candle-light. He could remember the exhilaration as Laurent kicked a tile and the small laugh that had followed on a rooftop. When he had thrown a sword across a stream in a desperate attempt to save Laurent from one of Makedon’s men, and the disbelief from both of them that it had worked. He could remember his own relief, his hands touching any part of Laurent to be  _ sure,  _ his heart pounding in his chest. 

“Forgive me for saying, but Laurent called you ‘Damen,’” said Nikandros, pulling Damen from what memories he had. “It would be foolish to presume, and you have not written of it, not that it would be safe. But -- ”

With a hand raised, Damen cut him off. “There are still gaps in the past, but I remember Leda, and your wedding.” He smiled at his friend. “When you told me that you were going to be a father. How many more months until the baby is due?”

“Three. And I’m under strict orders from my wife to tell both of you that I cannot be at war when my child is born,” said Nikandros. He smiled, an honest expression -- one that showed the the youth beneath the experienced war commander.

There had been a question Damen had been saving, another memory that had come back piece by piece -- Laurent riding up the dais of Ravenel, his uncle’s men behind him with threats of war and proclamations of treason. The next day, he had ridden off with the promise of reinforcements, and Nikandros had arrived. It had been almost like the story’s from his childhood, playing out too perfectly. 

“Did you march to Ravenel only on a promise of Laurent’s?”

Nikandros froze beside him. Damen could see him thinking, the tick in his jaw as decided what to say. “I don’t think you were meant to be the proof he promised of Kastor’s treason,” he said, carefully. 

“No.” 

That would have been Guion, perhaps, had Damen rode off as intended. But if he had, he would have met Nikandros’ and his troops within a day’s time. Laurent, with his mysterious correspondence and allies spread across the continent, had known exactly what freedom for Damen meant -- and what it would mean for his own cause.

Nikandros spoke again. “Akielos was fracturing between Kastor’s supporters and those of us who didn’t believe his lies. It was selfish, and I know that, Damen. But I wanted the proof. I didn’t expect the proof to be you, commanding a Veretian troop. And dressed like one of them.” He gazed at Damen from the corner of his eye. “Well, that hasn’t changed.” 

Even with the more arid climate, it was still too cold for chitons. Damen had dressed appropriately, in the Veretian fashion. 

“I was… amazed, and then confused, but you were alive, and you had an impenetrable fort.”

“By Laurent’s orders,” said Damen.

Nikandros sucked in a breath between his teeth, the creases around his eyes deepening for a moment. There was no reminiscence of the the resentment and disdain Damen remembered his friend having towards Laurent when Nikandros spoke of him now. But it seemed that the memory had brought something of that back, even for just a moment. 

“I wonder if you ever tire of giving me advice, and knowing that I will not take it,” said Damen.

“What else will we have to discuss if it’s not your failings,” Nikandros teased, like they were boys and not a king and his trusted advisor. Then, steadily, “I know you are going to ask. This plan is fine.”

“You think we have brought too many men.”

“Your kingdoms make up half the peninsula. You have the excess to be used. I think that as long as the threat remains to the east, what troops are left in the north and on the coast will hold off anything that may come.” Nikandros tilted his chin up towards the foreign country. “Torgeir cannot fight a two-front war. Wait for him to make the first move. But you should not wait long.” 

“No longer than three months?” Damen asked in a slight jest.

“Two, so I have travel time,” said Nikandros. He paused. “You know this will destroy any good will between the alliance and Patras.”

“Only if we lose.” 

Looking across the hills again, Damen could just make out the watchtower of Patras’ closest fort. 

The two of them made their way inside after a few minutes in silence, a bout of lighthearted bickering over the weather -- and Nikandros’ hatred for the cold despite his years in Delpha -- carrying them down the staircases and through the empty halls. 

When they happened upon a servant and Damen asked after the King of Vere, they were brought to one of the more private rooms at the back of the fort, one that from the looks of it was the Lord DeGoudry’s office.

The room was badly in need of repairs. Laurent leaned against a scratched desk, his arms crossed. The chairs before it showed their age with missing patches of velvet, as did the dirty lamp shades and curtains.

Announced by the servant and receiving an acknowledging nod from Laurent and bows from the lord and lady, Damen came to his husband’s side, picking up the trail of conversation. 

“We will refurbish any of your stores that our rations do not cover, or the funds to do so. I know the amount of men we have brought to your land is overwhelming,” said Laurent.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Lady DeGoudry. Her cheeks were flushed. “But what of the crops?”

Damen saw Laurent blink a few times. “The crops?” he repeated, evenly. 

“What my wife means, Your Majesty… ” broke in the Lord, his eyes shifting from Laurent to her, and then back again. Damen could see the slight shake in his clasped hands. “Although our crops are done for the year, what would the rotting corpses do to the soil?”

“And the blood,” added the woman.

“And the blood,” repeated her husband.

“Your land is far enough back from the border that this shouldn’t be a concern,” said Damen, crossing his own arms.

“Yes, Your Majesty, I mean, Exalted One,” Lord DeGoudry struggled. 

“We do not anticipate a bloody campaign,” said Laurent in a balanced tone, a disingenuous smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “But should the bodies start to pile up, they will be dealt with quickly. That is why we are here. Now, the Patran prisoners -- ” Lady DeGoudry sucked in a breath. Laurent continued. “Have they been manageable?”

“Manageable?”

That was a question for General Landres, but Damen allowed the couple to struggle, wondering what purpose Laurent had in the question.

Lord DeGoudry cleared his throat. A hand ran through his graying hair. Damen noticed the golden ring on his middle finger was missing a prominent stone.

The man stammered out some explanation, a rephrasing of the orders they had sent for the prisoner’s care. His wife’s hands, clasped together, had turned white from her grip as she nodded at everything that was said. 

Later, after dismissing the couple from their own rooms and calling for wine and bread, Laurent leaned further back against the old desk. He rolled his eyes in displeasure.

“They seem incompetent,” said Nikandros once the door was shut and they had waited for the two sets footfalls to fade away. He had stayed off to the side by the fireplace through the conversation, eyes dancing around the room.

“They’re hiding something,” said Damen.

A border lord best served the kingdom when they were battle-hardened - either from life near the border or military service. Lord DeGoudry met neither of these qualifications, Damen knew, but he couldn’t recall why the middle-aged man had been given the fort. Neither of them were made for the court at Arles, or even Marlas. 

Laurent hummed in agreement. “But what is it?” he asked, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. 

The weak light from the oil lamps danced across the plains of his face and the sharp lines of his body. Even without sleep and in the same clothes as the night before, he looked resplendent. 

Damen felt a tightening in his chest and tried to ignore it. He had to look away.

“You mean to say you don’t have spies throughout the fort?” Nikandros asked, leering at Laurent. 

“You know that -- ” Laurent cut himself off, and then looked to Damen. “I don’t trust them, but the fort was held by a member of my uncle’s faction,” he explained. Then, to Nikandros, “The lady’s maid hasn’t had anything of interest to report in months.”

Nikandros scoffed, rolling his eyes. He muttered something under his breath about a spy in every fort and keep.

“Only in the North, Kyros. What Damen does with his nobles and generals is out of my hands.” 

  
  


+

  
  


When the Akielon and Veretian banners were unfurled and the trumpets announced their arrival, Damen and Laurent were holding council with General Landres and his commanders. 

“They attacked from over here,” said Landres, his finger tracing across the map along an area four miles to the north. “We’ve had double the men stationed there since, but the Patrans haven’t done much but patrol.”

It was basic battle strategy not to raid the same area twice; it wasn’t a development that the Patrans knew the tactic as well as Damen and Laurent’s own men.

“How many men have we lost?”

One of the commanders rattled off an acceptable number.

“What of their scouts?” Damen asked. 

  
  


\+ 

  
  


Late that evening, Damen’s slow steps finally brought him to his chambers.

A review of the inventory of weapons from Guymar and a tour of the grounds and the camp had all commanded his time after he and Laurent were done with the war committee. The failed interrogation with the Patran prisoners had been the last of his obligations, and the last of what he could take for the night.

The guards on either side of the door a kind servant had pointed him towards looked as tired as he felt. With a solemn nod of solidarity, Damen reached for the door.

“No one is to disturb me unless there’s an actual emergency. Fire. Death,” he said, voice hoarse, and pushed the door open.

Laurent awaited him on the sette, looking every inch as comfortable as he could be on the worn piece of furniture. The adjoining door between their rooms was pushed open, as if it was such a simple thing, to share the space.

Damen realized as he pulled roughly at the laces on his jacket, that it was now. 

Again.

He looked back to his husband who watched him as well now, hands paused, the braid he had been working his damp hair into incomplete. After too many days on the road, Laurent finally looked clean, but wan and tired. Always so tired. 

“Patras no longer recognizes the alliance between Akielos and Vere,” said Damen by way of greeting. He pulled his jacket off, tossing it over the back of a chair. His boots followed next, kicked off and left on the floor.

There was always one prisoner who would crack at the sight of royalty even when commanders and guards couldn’t get them to break, but that had been the only thing he was able to pry out of the captives.

“That’s interesting,” said Laurent. 

“It’s useless,” said Damen. “Torgeir cannot think he’ll accomplish anything with that decision. That doesn’t make half the men we have disappear.”

“I don’t think word has reached him yet that we’re here.” 

No, even with the fastest of messengers, that would take another day. Still, the soldiers across the border would know of their arrival, and the scouts they had let slip through would be making their way frantically back across the border to report the sudden influx of soldiers all along the Veretian countryside. 

Still, Damen cursed the foreign king, as he had been doing for the past five weeks.

He heard Laurent say something as he worked the laces of his undershirt. Every piece of fabric on him had felt confining and uncomfortable all day, and his skin had felt as if something was crawling all over him everywhere. The front of his thighs and shoulders, the insider of his arms. Like there was an oncoming itch that just wasn’t prevalent enough to scratch. 

“What was that?” 

“Have you eaten?” Laurent asked slowly, enunciating each word. “You missed dinner.” There was a plate of food on the table that he gestured to, even a little bit of some sweet to side for dessert.

Damen smiled in thanks, removing his stockings and then grabbing the plate and making his way over to the sette, moving Laurent’s legs so he could sit down. 

“How were the Lord and Lady this evening?” he asked, resting the plate of food on the arm rest and Laurent’s calves across his thighs. 

He felt Laurent go still for just a moment, but then he settled. 

“As nervous as this morning. Maybe more so.” 

“And how awful was the wine?”

“I wouldn’t know. But they sure drank a lot of it,” said Laurent, impassive. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the back cushion. A sigh. “What are they hiding, Damen?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Are you worried -- ”

“No,” Laurent cut in. “I don’t think it’s anything on consequence. Just -- ” He looked to Damen, his eyes bloodshot and full of the unsurety that came when too many hours were spent awake and all reasonable thought had left. 

“Let’s save that for tomorrow, then,” Damen told him. 

Laurent made a small sound of disapproval, but acquiesced, his head resting on the sette and eyes closing again. 

Damen’s hand circled one of his ankles and gave it a comforting squeeze. He had thought it would take physical force to pry Laurent away from the maps and commanders, to force him to rest. This was better.

The fire crackled in the quiet as he ate, more out of necessity than enjoyment. He felt his own weariness settling in an ache across shoulders and in his feet. 

War was not for impatient men, or those who balked at the idea of swords clashing, or lines breaking. You could not rush men to their deaths, nor predict the outcome.

Damen tried not to to think of the number of men they had waiting on their orders all down Delpha’s border and through Akielos, or of the men on the other side. He knew the morning would come quickly with it’s tasks, more quickly than the sun had risen when he and Laurent were in their makeshift bed in the tent, the both of them pretending to still be asleep as they held one another close. 

For just a moment, he wished they were still on the road, riding towards the conflict, and not yet fully responsible for all that would happen. 

Damen took one bite of the sweet, a fruit tart of some kind that was too tangy for his tastes, and then set his fork down. 

“Tell me something that isn’t about Patras or this fort or its lord,” he said. 

“That’s a vast range of things,” Laurent replied, softly. When Damen looked over to him, his eyes were still closed.

A tired rise and fall of a shoulder. “Something nice,” he said. 

Quiet lapsed between them again for long enough that Damen wondered if Laurent had let himself fall asleep, and if he should risk waking him to get him into bed. But then Laurent hummed, and opening his eyes, gracefully rearranged himself so he could rest against Damen’s arm. 

“You’ve stopped shaving.”

Damen felt a pleasant warm in his chest. He gave a weary laugh. “Glad you’ve noticed,” he said, voice warm. He was unable to stop himself from reaching up and running his hand over his jaw. 

“It fits you,” said Laurent. Then, “I like it. I don’t know if I ever told you that before.” 

The warmth in Damen’s chest spread down his arms and middle. 

Privacy like this -- stone walls, rooms between the chamber door and the bed -- was a luxury Damen had wished for on the fortnight’s ride. Every time Laurent would look at him with a certain gleam in his blue eyes, or when his cheeks often turned red when they were alone. He had longed for this privacy after the night Laurent woke from a nightmare, with every kiss that lingered even a moment too long. 

There would be time for that sort of intimacy later. 

He said, “To bed,” and stood slowly, offering Laurent a hand.

After they were under the covers, the thick curtains closed and blocking out all else, Laurent didn’t hesitate to reach out for him. A hand came to curl around his arm, a feather of a touch that settled and didn’t move. 

“I’ve never been in a battle without you,” Laurent mumbled, his words half swallowed by the pillows. When Damen opened his eyes and turned, there was a tiny smile on his lips. “It’s comforting.”

“Is it?” he asked, reaching a hand out to smooth a blonde strand of hair away from his face.

Laurent hummed and then after a moment said, “This bed is awful.”

“Do you think yours would be much better?”

“No,” said Laurent. He snuggled down further in the blankets, reaching a hand out blindly for Damen. It settled on his chest. “Just means we have to get home sooner than later.”

  
  


+

  
  


With all the Akielon and Veretian troops surrounding the border, the only strategy the Patran soldiers had was surprise. 

The raids began the night following the unfurling of the banners. 

The town of Rendoit was northwest by three miles, far enough from the fort and it’s influx of soldiers for a few Patrans to slip through. What little damage they did was inconsequential -- two ransacked stores, an attempt at the blacksmith’s home that ended with two more prisoners to add to the dungeons, and one missing horse.

Missives came from other commanders in the border-towns nearby, reporting similar attempts with similar outcomes. It was the ones further away that Damen was concerned about.

“With us here at Carconett, we’re the border patrol’s focus,” he said. 

In another large room that had become the war committee's chamber, there was a map -- not the sandpit he preferred -- centered on the table. 

“But should they be ours?” asked Laurent. “If I was one of Torgeir’s commanders, I would order only as many men as I could spare to watch us, but pick certain areas to triple the men. And then slide those men over the border. Then, I would attack those forts.” 

“They don’t know how many men we have,” said Nikandros.

“Well, the scout we let slip through thought he saw twelve-hundred when we asked,” said Laurent conversationally. 

It wasn’t so much that they had asked the scout as Pallas had tailed the man, captured him, and brought him back at Damen and Laurent’s command.

“We have double that,” said Landros. The commanders nodded. 

“Exactly,” said Laurent. “They won’t underestimate us for long. We can keep them distracted here, and move all the former slaves further west.”

That night, there was another raid. This time, half a dozen Patrans galloped on horses through the troops’ camp while Damen and Laurent watched out their chamber windows. 

“I like to assume most armies are smarter than this,” said Laurent. 

There were no fires or lamps burning, nothing to give suggestion that this raid was part of their own plan. 

“No you don’t,” said Damen.

He didn’t like it, of course. Even with years to grow accustomed to the Veretian battle-strategies, Damen still preferred the straightforward approach. To allow the Patran raiders to ride through camp had him grinding his teeth. But, it would give them cause to counterattack. That had been the whole point.

The following morning, the royal herald was sent across the border. He carried a scroll, sealed by two wax imprints -- one for the King of Akielos, the other for the King of Vere. The missive had been written, and then rewritten, a day prior. 

_ ‘We offer you a chance to attack in the daylight, with our full forces facings yours.’ _

Whether the Patran commanders would acquiesce or not, Damen and Laurent mounted their horses in full regalia. The trumpets sounded and bannerman mounted, everyone stoic and silent behind the kings as they set off. 

The ride wasn’t long, but with each step there came the mounting nerves of battle. This was only meant to be a show of power, a chance for Patras to surrender and focus back in on their own conflict, and still Damen’s stomach clenched in excitement and dread. 

One could fight in two hundred battles and still be unable to predict the victor. 

The field that they came to stand on had no name, the invisible line separating Vere from Patras only defined by the space between each army. The Patrans looked unkempt, a juxtaposition to the forces in perfect rows and lines standing behind Damen and Laurent.

In silence, they waited. 

Beside him, Laurent was a steady reassurance. He looked unwaveringly ahead, one perfect brow arched. 

“Who speaks for Vere and Akielos?” A gruff voice called across the field. There were no distinguished members of the Patran forces; no particular man the voice seemed to come from.

“Hold,” Damen ordered.

“Who speaks for the foreign kings?” The same voice called.

Damen repeated his order, listening as it echoed down the columns. 

When a trio of men on horseback detached from the Patran lines, Laurent turned to Guymar and then Nikandros.

“Come,” he said, digging his heels into his horse. Damen did the same. 

Their bannermen followed. The heralds. A selection from their Guard. It was a sample of their forces compared to the army on the other side of the border. A mockery. As they road to meet the three soldiers, Damen felt his gut clench again in anticipation. His grip on the reins tightened.

They made the Patrans come to them, slowing their horses to a trot as they approached the middle of the field. Another symbol of their power. 

“We do not need anyone to speak for us,” said Damen when the Patran soldiers reined in their horses. “Who has Torgeir sent in his place?”

“I am General Arash of Bazal. My King has more important problems than this border dispute.”

“Yes, a civil war is much harder to contain. We wouldn’t know from experience, of course,” said Laurent, casually. 

“What is it that you want, Your Majesty?” asked the general **,** spitting the formal address like it had a fowl taste.

“Did our herald not deliver the message? You’re here, so we had assumed….” Laurent raised both his brows.

“The slaves that were recovered across your border have been returned to their proper owners. They cannot be returned to you, as they never belonged to you.”

“They never belonged to anyone,” said Damen, adamantly. 

“That seems to be where we and your king disagree, General,” Laurent said in an annoyingly conversational tone. “As well as all those you claim to own. But the raids on my kingdom, we can agree those were unprovoked, can we not? And an act of war.”

This semblance of protocol was pointless, a tradition of warfare that was meant for establishing a truce or surrender, but never seemed to. There was nothing either party would say to the other to force a parlay or surrender. There was no question that he and Laurent would fight if need be, and the Patrans would only surrender if those had been their orders.

Damen didn’t remember the Patran king very well, but he knew him to be a prideful man. 

“You are vastly outnumbered,” said Damen. “If you wish to attack now as you have in the cover of the night, your men will die.”

General Arash reacted as a man seasoned by battles and having the command. A simple turn of the head with a neutral expression. “Why is the Akielon king not in his country?” 

“Is that your king asking, or you? I’m sure your fellow generals along my border have informed you my presence isn’t necessary. Surrender now and end this.”

“Return the rest of the slaves you have let hide across your borders, or accept the charge of thievery and prepare for trial by battle, as my King dictated.”

Damen saw Laurent opening his mouth to reply, his vicious lips finally forming insults. 

“There is nothing you have that we want, General, but the freed men and women whom you are keeping like like teapots on shelves,” said Laurent. His horse fidgeted, taking a step forward. “Do you seek glory? You will not have it here.” 

In the next instant, an arrow lodge itself in Guymar’s throat and the Captain fell from his horse. A yell sounded from the Patran lines.

Damen’s sword was unsheathed before he realized what he had done, the blade dripping in blood moments later. The three Patrans before them were dead -- two beheaded with the swift stroke of his sword, the other stabbed through the neck. Laurent pulled his blade from the body. 

“Fall back,” Damen ordered.

Laurent nodded. When he turned to Damen, his eyes were wide, pupils blown. 

Another cry came from the Patrans, along with the song of many swords being unsheathed.

“Fall back now,” Damen repeated, heels digging into his horse and then galloping back to their men. 

The order was given to form up, their own archers re-notching arrows and taking aim, Akielon and Veretian steel unsheathed and shields raised. 

“Do not let them retreat!” Laurent called across the field. “They have slaves in their camps. We will not give them option to harm them anymore.” 

Damen made sure his voice carried. “Patras wanted to attack in the dead of night. They wanted to harm our people, and those we gave sanctuary. They would rather kill their slaves then let them go free. We cannot stand for this.”

“They look disorganized. Do not be fooled by that,” said Laurent. “We will win this fight, and take their camp and send a message down the entire border and all the way to Bazal!” 

A roar of agreement sounded, men gripping their swords, adjusting their shields. Generals flanked to their garrisons, barking orders of formation and tactics Damen and Laurent had spent many a late night planning.

A steward came and handed them each their visors, retreating quickly. 

Damen felt the anger of battles before, the indignation towards Patras and their outdated customs, the days on the road. It simmered inside him, a beast too long leashed. 

Nikandros had moved off to take his position with the eastern flank, where Damen would be as well. He turned to Laurent, to say  _ something _ , he wasn’t sure what exactly, and found the other’s eyes on him already.

“Tell me you love me,” said Laurent.

“Laurent,” he said.

“Damen, we don’t have time.” Laurent looked to the west where he was set to lead the men. Jord had already taken Guymar’s place at the front of the lines. “Tell me you love me.”

“I love you,” said Damen. “You know that. We will be -- ”

“I love you too,” said Laurent, cutting him off. “I don’t want you doubting -- ”

“No, of course not.”

A frown and steely gaze. “You do not get to die here,” Laurent said. He reached out, clasping Damen’s forearm. “We will die old, together, in our bed at Marlas. You owe me another fifty years at the minimum.” 

“Sixty,” offered Damen, his fingers wrapping around Laurent’s gauntlet. 

The Patran generals were yelling the orders to charge. Both Kings turned to look across the field once more.

“You don’t get to die here, either,” said Damen and with a squeeze of his hand on sun-warmed armor, he pulled back.

Laurent nodded, and then went to Jord and his men.

  
  


+

  
  


All around Damen, there was chaos.

The first onslaught of arrows had been a weak threat with the initial wave of metal against man, horse against steel. But still, it was all-encompassing, and Damen’s focus turned to killing and pressing ahead. There was no easy way to win this battle -- no commander to take down and turn the tides, no bannerman following an important figure like those behind him and at a distance, the starburst behind Laurent. They were the easy targets, and as men fell on Damen’s sword, more came. 

An hour of battle passed, and the Patrans did not fall back. No matter how many men they lost, the commanders did not order a retreat as more and more of Akielon and Veretian troops pressed ahead.

A brave soldier who had seen his comrade fall only a moment before thrust a spear at Damen’s horse. The wooden shaft was sliced in half by his blade, the man following. Gaining distance, Damen called for the lines to regroup around him as Nikandros’ horse screamed, taking a blade for its rider. 

Through it all -- the horses falling and swords crashing against one another, across the body-littered field and the sounds of death -- Damen was aware of Laurent to his right. For every inch of progress Damen made, so did Laurent. He yelled commands, words unintelligible but voice strong, and the men followed. 

The battle went on. 

Damen took on whoever came before him, and each and every one of them fell. 

Out of the corner of his eye, the sun caught the shining gold armor of Laurent, taking down those who challenged him, like at Ravenel, where his banner had toppled and --

Damen disarmed the Patran with an arching blade and then killed him, calling his men to regroup and move forward. 

\-- that night Laurent had ordered Damen sent to his rooms, the fort secured. They had kissed --

The cries and grunts around him faded away. 

\-- on the battlements, and Laurent had known who he was.

His focus tore in two, half on the battle now and the other on the past as it rushed back. One image after another. A memory. A feeling.

He remember Laurent with him at the Kingsmeet, both pretending to be modest pilgrims, then the Regent standing before them. Laurent begging for Damen’s life. 

A king in all gold, finally crowned. 

A respite at the summer palace, and the taste of pale sun-kissed skin.

A love-nest at a tiny inn, Laurent lazing on the furs. 

The inn at Nesson, and a convincing act as a pet. Laughter on rooftops and a new feeling as he watched the Prince pull on a beggar’s hat with a smirk.

Before all of that, Laurent pinning himself to a wall, chest raising and falling with what for such a controlled man was frantic breath, telling Damen he couldn’t protect him if tried to escape.

“Laurent!” he yelled, breaking through a cluster of yellow and purple, turning his horse to the west. He could see him pushing forward, the blue banner still standing. 

Laurent didn’t hear him.

It was an irrational choice. 

With a harsh tug on the reins, he pulled his horse to face Nikandros. They quickly dealt with a trio of Patrans, an effortless task. “Push forward,” Damen ordered as he pulled his blade from a body, and then charged across the field. 

He fought his way across the field, breaking through Patran lines from behind. The chaos multiplied around him as men tripped over the bodies left in his wake, and those who saw him and chose to flee falling to the Veretian troops working forward. Damen didn’t count the men he slayed along the way; his goal was still victory, but also to be at Laurent’s side. 

He killed and broke through to the Veretian lines, his sword raised for the next engagement when Laurent, turned away, brought his own blade down in an arc over his head. Out of reflex, Damen countered.

When Laurent turned, there was little time for more than a questioning look. “Damen?” he said, but another blade was coming towards him. Laurent parried it away.

Damen didn’t know what to say. Where to start. He fought off another soldier, the killing blow splattering blood up his arms. One image stuck out in his mind’s eye; Laurent with the clear blue sky of Marlas behind him, holding both of Damen’s hands in his, the gold of his crown and hair nearly matched. A look of pure joy lightening up his steel blue eyes.

“You wore all white at our wedding,” he said, loudly. Loud enough to be heard over the ringing engagement of swords and screams around them. 

“What? We don’t have -- Did the east fall?” Laurent asked, unable to wait for the answer as he kicked away a Patran soldier with one foot, his horse then jumping over the body. “Why -- ”

“I remember,” was all he said. 

In a pause between enemies, Laurent stopped. He had lost his visor at some point, his blonde hair slicked back with sweat and and grime, his skin flushed. He turned to Damen fully, reining his horse in. 

Ripping off his own helmet, Damen took a deep, ragged breath. 

“I remember.”

  
  


+

  
  


The battlefield was no place for a reunion.

The winter sun was high in the sky when the last of the Patrans surrendered. 

The ground was littered with bodies, both comrade and foe, the once frostbitten land covered in broken spears and abandoned shields. When there was no one left before him wearing the purple and yellow of their enemy, Damen dropped his arm, his swordpoint sinking into the ground. He let his eyes close for a moment. His head ached, either from the battle or the onslaught of his past. 

Or both.

Laurent was nearby as he had stayed for most of the battle. He had finally dismounted his horse when the Patrans pulled back and had yet to move. He rested both hands on the mare’s flank, his head bowed. 

There had been no more words exchanged between them beyond the yelling of a name or a warning when necessary, no time for everything Damen had felt coursing through his veins. As Damen watched him now, his heart returned to his throat, his own breath heaving not from the battle. 

There was a clear path between them, as if the dead had fallen just to allow for this. Damen made quick work of the distance between them, stopping just to Laurent’s side. He pushed back the urge to reach out, to comb back the sweat-soaked hair or trace the thin cut across his cheek.

They wouldn’t have much time.

He said Laurent’s name, gently. 

A shuddering breath. A flexing of fingers against the mare’s coat. 

Damen said his name again, patient.

“When you said,” Laurent began, and then stopped. Damen could see him swallow, “That you remembered. What exactly did you mean?” It was a hesitant question, each word balanced on the edge of the blade.

“Everything.” He couldn’t not touch him now. Damen reached out with a gentle hand, skimming the length of Laurent’s arm down to his hand. In the spaces between his fingers, Damen placed his own and took the last distance between them in a single step. “Everything, my love,” he said. 

It was too private how they were standing, but even still, Damen leaned down to rest his forehead on the crown of blonde hair. “I think if I gave you my heart, you would treat it tenderly,” he whispered, closing his own eyes and seeing the room in Karthas, Laurent holding him close, his own father dead and the acceptance washing over Damen months too late. 

In that moment, he had truly known for the first time what he was willing to give up for Laurent --  _ we hold the center _ \-- and the man hadn’t let him. 

On his next breath, Damen felt the weight of the past four months, of all Laurent had worked to keep their kingdoms afloat, of the secrets and ridiculous scenarios, of those aching letters from Arles. 

He said, “I am so sorry,” and meant every word.

Laurent’s sharp intake of breath was audible, and Damen felt a hand pushing him back. There was a searching look in blue eyes, an unsure pause before unsteady hands cupped his cheeks. “Why are you apologizing? Don’t apologize, you _ fool. _ ” The insult sounded like an endearment, an exhausted elatement.

Damen let himself bask in it. 

He moved to kiss Laurent, another private act too public, but a need.

“Excuse me, Your Majesty. Exalted.”

They both turned towards Jord who was restraining a Patran soldier with the help of Lazar. 

With a minuscule of a step back, Laurent said, “Yes?” 

Hours later, when the sun was setting and there was nothing left to be done, the victory celebrated in the great hall with wine, roasted boar, and music, Damen finally found himself at his chamber door. 

He had followed Laurent out of the hall after than man squeezed his hand and given him an hopeful and expectant look, gracefully dodging celebrators trying to trap him in conversation and members of the household. Damen, never so lucky, had trailed behind, his desire sitting like a warm wine in his belly as he suffered congratulations and small talk.

Laurent was looking out a window as the door closed behind Damen, sparing a glance over his shoulder. He was the perfect image of a disinterested king, posture perfect, attention elsewhere.

It would have been believable if only had hadn’t clung to Damen’s hand under the dinner table, or looked at him with dark, hungry eyes.

Crossing the room quickly, Damen trailed a hand confidently up Laurent’s back. He felt the muscles tense and then the shudder of relaxation.

“Hello.”

“You don’t want to celebrate?” Laurent asked with false indifference.

Damen smirked to himself. “I followed you.” Carefully, he brought his hands to Laurent’s hips and then turned him around. “I haven’t had time to tell you that I love you today.”

Laurent’s cheeks went a lovely shade of pink, but his words were unphased. “That’s not true.” 

“I haven’t told you without the threat of war only a minute away. Not since -- ”

“Damen.”

“I love you.”

If possible, Laurent blushed even more as he averted his gaze. “We have much to talk about.”

Damen hummed, deciding on another tactic. He pulled on the bow at Laurent’s collar. The noticeable rise and fall of his chest made him smile slyly. “We have delayed talking all day.”

“We -- there were things -- ”

He paused, fingers at the middle of Laurent’s chest, the jacket falling open. Wetting his lips, Damen took a step closer. “Do you want me to beg? Will you at least kiss me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I -- ”

“It was very distracting,” said Damen. The jacket was unlaced finally. He reached to push it off his shoulders. “To remember you leaving me in your bed at Ravenel, and then knowing that you still couldn’t let me go. I killed men today, thinking of that night.”

“Damen.” His name was a soft sigh.

“I remembered that sometimes,” he reached for the lacing of Laurent’s undershirt. “You want me to kiss you quiet. When you rant and are talking yourself in circles.” His voice was warm, filled with the memories of hours in bed, of Laurent’ s pleasure. 

“When was the last time, Laurent? Can you remember?”

Damen didn’t wait for an answer, leaning in to press a kiss to his neck, and another. He trailed his lips up to the sensitive skin behind an ear and then down to the collarbone. Laurent’s hitching breath was all the encouragement needed to keep working at his laces, pulling back only enough to remove the undershirt before reattaching his lips to skin. 

“Off,” Laurent ordered, tugging at Damen’s own jacket and then sleeves. 

They made quick work of the rest of their clothing, leaving extravagant fabric in piles on the floor before Laurent pulled Damen back to him with a hand at the back of his neck. 

“I love you,” said Damen. “I love you so much.”

Closing his eyes, lips parting, Laurent said, “Never do that to me again.”

“Never. I swear, Laurent. Never.” 

With a frantic nod of his head, Laurent gave a ragged breath. “Kiss me.”

Damen was all too happy to oblige. 

  
  


+

  
  


Damen woke early in the morning to a firm rapping at the bedchamber door. Laurent was pressed close to him, his golden hair spread out on his pillow, and arm across Damen’s middle. 

It was an irresponsible decision to ignore it and pull his husband closer. He did so anyways, basking in the warmth of their bed and inside his heart. The thick curtains enclosing the bed made it easier to pretend that there was nothing else beyond the two of them.

But the rapping continued, more frantic. There was a call for the kings from one of their stewards, waking Laurent.

“Make it stop,” he said, sleep in his words as he shifted only enough to rest his head over Damen’s heart. 

All Damen could feel was his own happiness spreading through him. 

“We’re at war,” he said.

“It can wait,” said Laurent, and then he reached down and pulled the covers over the both of them.

Underneath the furs, the knocks and their names still loud enough to distinguish, Laurent cupped Damen’s cheeks and looked at him with wide, open eyes. There was so much in them -- the pain Damen had grown used to seeing, even when Laurent tried to hide it. Worry, confusion, and love. Above all, Laurent looked at Damen with so much love, so much that he hadn’t been able to ignore it for months. 

Turning his head, he pressed a kiss to each of Laurent’s palms, his own hands coming to hips. Their feet tangled together.

“I want to threaten you more,” said Laurent.

Damen chuckled. “Oh really?” he asked, warmly.

“That if you ever forget us again, I will leave you. I will ride straight for Arles and never come back.”

Damen pressed another kiss to one palm. “But…”

“But we both know that isn’t possible.” Laurent said with a scoff. Then, “Of course you would remember in the middle of battle, you barbarian. Everything important in your life doesn’t have to involve swords and blood.”

Damen wanted to promise that next time, he would remember after neither of them could hold back anymore and ended up in bed together. If anything was as illogical as remembering the love of his life in battle, it would make more sense for it to happen in bed. But, he also had the sense not to ruin what little alone time they had.

“I love you,” he said instead.

“And I love you,” said Laurent. He reached up, pushing hair off of Damen’s forehead. “If we weren’t at war, you would owe me seven hours in this bed.”

Grinning, “Only seven?”

As it was, they were able to steal another hour of privacy, of gentle touches and soft kisses that Damen knew they had both been too long without, before dressing and taking breakfast as the war committee discussed the victory and what was next to be done. 

It was clear, even now, that Patras couldn’t really put up a real fight against their combined forces, but however long it took for the slaves to be freed and the borders to be opened again, the Kings of Vere and Akielos would wait. And they would win. 

As the discussions continued, the reports of losses, the count of the slaves brought from the Patran camp, and the missives read aloud to all, Damen couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting across the table, or his attention from splitting as it had in the battle.

They were in the middle of talks of alternate trade routes later in the day, maybe about rye or corn. A better king would have known. But there had been more tender glances shared over the table than were befitting of Veretian or Akielon propriety that kept pulling Damen’s attention away.

If those in their company were aware, they didn’t say anything. 

“Your Majesty, what do you think?” asked an advisor, his head turning towards Laurent.

Damen had no idea what the suggestion had been. 

“Sounds like a fine idea,” said Laurent, eyes never having left Damen’s. He gave a small private smile. 

Damen’s own large grin matched it.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took me nearly four months to write, and it’s nearing the fifth as this is posted… There was a point where I was so concerned about the word count, but...as we can see…  
>   
> If you’ve read this far, I hope you enjoyed this story! I would love to know what you thought via comments and kudos!  
>   
> Thank you to my beta-trio of Sam, Beefy, and Mels who made this readable and talked me out of some writing blocks that were quite dramatic.  
>   
> Thank you to my artists, [ Bru Novaez](https://brunovaez.tumblr.com/), and[ Asuraaa](http://asuraaa.tumblr.com/) (and [ Beefy](http://sitical.tumblr.com/) who gifted me with pieces as well). They all BLEW MY MIND and went so far above any idea or expectations I had. I’m still yelling about all this artwork and will be forever.  
>   
> Lastly, thank you to the mods for the BB for coordinating everything and keeping us all on track!  
> (And an extra thank you to Elle for sliding into my DMs many many many months ago, before the Big Bang was even discussed and asking “so what’s this Amnesia AU idea you have”. I hope this fic was everything I promised it would be.)  
>   
>   
> The title comes from Florence and the Machine’s song “Heartlines”  
>   
>   
> (PS: You decides what the Lord and Lady at Carconett were hiding! I know what it was but it never made it into the story as Laurent had bigger issues to deal with.)  
>   
> I’m on tumblr at [ LaurnotofVere](https://laurnotofvere.tumblr.com/).


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